#is being a HUSBAND a vocation?!

[queenbeaver69]

Yo @slothsaresleepy this famous football player says that being a wife is a vocation, so where the fuck is my paycheck bro

[froody]

Women throughout (American and English) history worked. The idea that in the past the sole responsibility of women was domestic labor and childrearing is largely inaccurate for the majority of women in these societies. Women were expected to do domestic labor like cooking and cleaning and raising children AND work to bring income to their family, this was true for the average woman, excluding the upper middle class/wealthy. If a woman’s husband owned a tavern or restaurant, she also cooked and kept bar and did the duties associated with the business. If a woman’s husband was a (small scale/subsistence/tenant) farmer, the woman did farm labor. Often a woman was expected to do labor related to her husband’s job.

Women also had vocations and forms of income unrelated to their husband. The nature of these jobs changed over time but many women did things like weaving, embroidery, crafting, beer brewing, chicken tending and laundress work to bring income. Women with skills were seen as better marriage candidates because they’d make money for their husband.

My great-great-great-great grandmother told fortunes and did farm labor, my great-great-great grandmother was a midwife, my great-great grandmother worked in a textile factory for most of her adult life and my great grandmother was a school lunch lady.

This is why it makes me irate when women on the right say things like “feminism forced me to get a job instead of being allowed to stay home with my children” before feminism you would have had to tend house, raise your children and bring income to your husband. Now, at the very least, the money is hopefully your own. Women were always in the workforce, their work was not recognized.

[honeyhotteoks]

i NEED your thoughts on priest!yunho like.... please, all my mind does is wonder about yunho using his power to bring a girl under his powerful spell... I NEED HIM BIBLICALLY

idk if you remember me but ✨anon is back !!!

oh my gosh hi ✨ anon!! i def remember you, i hope you've been well!

okay so priest!yunho is actually so dear to me i cannot even articulate it i have like sixteen different ideas and i honestly think at some point it will develop into a full fic however.............. further thoughts under the cut

priest!yunho x married!reader drabble; 1.7K words warnings: lots of angst, pining, and blasphemy, questionable use of a confessional, oral (f receiving)

note: okay so here's the thing about priest!yunho, and yunho in general, while i think he deeply has the capacity for very real dom/sub dynamics etc., when it comes to the idea of him being catholic or him being a priest in the fic, i think of him less bringing a girl under his spell and more being brought under a spell and tempted away by reader. certainly that's not an original idea, that's very fleabag-esque and i've mentioned that headcanon before, but i do think that would be very true to him. so given that...................

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──────────────── ♡ ─────────────── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Yunho is new to the parish, and he's still somewhat new to this. A young priest in his early thirties moving to a new place to fill the role of someone who was once a big fixture in the community there. He's admittedly a bit nervous, and he's trying his hardest to get this right. He's had a long and complicated past coming to the vocation, and he feels like he's finally found his path, so he wants to do things the right way.

But despite all of that...... there's you. And you're married of course, you come to church with your husband, but you smile up at him during services and ask after him in quiet moments whenever you volunteer, and there's just something about the way you move in the world that makes him want to follow. But he doesn't, because you're married and for all intents and purposes so is he.

That is until things start to change. You start to miss Sunday services more often and when you are there you seem withdrawn. Your husband no longer sits snugly beside you with an arm around you shoulders, instead you sit side by side with six inches between you. Space that seems to be growing week after week, and Yunho can't help but notice. He can't help but wonder what it is that's troubling you so and driving a wedge deeply into your marriage, and it's not his place and he shouldn't ask..... but he does.

As you leave service one day, he slips a note into your palm, pressing your hand tightly closed so no one can see it and with a pleading expression he bids you not to open it until you're alone. He doesn't know what's happening at home, he can't be sure, but he's worried and if you're unsafe the last thing he's going to do is be the cause of more pain in your life.

It's simple though - a phone number scrawled out hastily next to a note. If you ever need a friend, you have one in me.

It takes you weeks to call, but it feels finally like someone's thrown you a lifeline and you grab onto it with both hands.

It starts simply enough, truly innocent when he offers you coffee and a safe place to sit by his side in the chapel. He's an ear at first, just listening and nothing more. You confess to him how hard things have been at home, how your relationship has grown strained, more like two passive strangers than a committed husband and wife. You admit you've thought about divorce, and you know deep down your husband has been cheating on you. You've seen enough little signs and found enough evidence, and it used to hurt but now it just feels empty, and you've never said that out loud to another person except to him.

He listens and he holds your hand, and he gives you a safe place every few days to just be. And all the while he tries desperately to convince himself that the growing love he feels for you isn't romantic love at all, it isn't deep and intrinsic and as essential to him as breathing.... it's friendship. And all the while you tell yourself that the feelings you have for this man aren't real, they're a product of kind attention, validation and support you're not getting at home.

Things change when the visits turn from morning coffees to a shared glass of something stronger in the evenings. Things change when he casually admits that of course he feels attraction for people, priests aren't blind, but they've committed themselves to a different kind of life. Things change when he holds you close one night, your chest wracked with tears after a particularly nasty fight with your husband, seeking Yunho's warmth and his calm.

When you finally decide to do the unthinkable, really and truly divorce your husband, the day happens around you like a whirlwind. You serve him the papers, and he replies with the most hurtful thing he ever could - an accusation that you and the parish priest have become a little too friendly. People have seen you around town, around the church, early mornings and late nights, and all the little whispers of gossip have made it so that despite having done nothing but yearn for each other, everyone has all but confirmed an affair.

The words exchanged are cruel, and you find yourself stumbling into the confessional with more anger than you've ever felt in your life. and Yunho doesn't understand why you even want to use the booth at first, you've never expressed any real interest in the more traditional aspects of the church, but you're here and your begging him and all he can do is agree.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned," You manage through hazy tears, "I can't tell you how long it's been since my last confession, I don't know, I don't remember,"

"y/n," Yunho's voice is so soft, so tender, approaching you like someone might approach a wounded animal, "you don't have to do this,"

"Stop it, stop it!" Your fists tighten, nails pressing into your palms, "Don't be nice to me right now, I can't... I don't deserve that,"

"You always deserve kindness," He says through the slats and you hear him shift in his seat.

"Not today," You scrub a hand over your face, clearing away tracks of wet tears.

"Please," He shifts again, and you can picture him clearly, leaning towards you with that gentle expression you love so much, "talk to me, I'm here,"

"I've sinned," You clench your hands tighter, sticking to the script that was drilled into you in childhood.

"y/n," He murmurs.

"Father," You cut his words off, "you're not my friend, you're my priest. Are you going to take my confession or not?"

He's silent, so silent you fear for a moment that he's gone, and then you hear a heavy sigh, "I'm listening."

Your hands relax a little, your eyes going unfocused as you try to find the words. You came here in a blaze of anger but here, next to him, in front of him, hearing his breath through the wall, you don't know how to articulate all the feelings roiling deep in your chest.

Your soon to be ex-husband's words loop in your ears - You're a disgrace. You could have fucked anyone like a normal person, but him?

Words tumble from your lips, "I'm a liar,"

Yunho stays quiet.

"I've been lying to... everyone. To him, to my friends, myself, I've been lying to you," Your breath feels thready.

"About what?" He prompts you, "I'm listening,"

You push past it, heat filling your cheeks again, anger curling in your gut, "I've coveted,"

He hums softly, acknowledging your words.

"I left him," You take a sharp inhale, a tight sob caught in your throat.

"What?" You hear him shift again on the other side of the thin wood wall.

"I got an apartment, I found a lawyer, I figured it all out and I... I gave him the papers," You can feel the way your husband pushed you back into your chair, his tone harsh and cutting, the way he told you he'd take you for everything you were worth not the other way around.

Yunho's silent still.

"I tried to leave," You sob, "I tried to be the adult and end it easily, I tried to do the right thing, he's the one who's been cheating, he's been lying. He's been... he's not a good husband, and I... I just..."

"Shh, shh," He shushes softly through the wall, and you can practically feel the tension from him even with the wall between you as he tries to parse through your words, "breathe,"

"He knows about us," The words keep coming now, and you hear his little intake of breath but there's nothing more as you let it all come, "he knows I come here, everyone knows. Everyone. He said it's obvious, that I'm the one who's been cheating, that I... I broke our vows in the w-worst way, that it's an open secret. Everyone thinks I got b-bored, that I seduced you,"

Your heart is pounding in your ears, "And it's a rumor, it's just a rumor, but the thing is,"

You hear him shift again in the confessional next to you, the only sign he's still here.

"I do want you," You drop your head into your hands, "I've lied to you since the start, I wanted a friend, but I've wanted you too,"

"y/n," He's so quiet you almost miss it.

"And if everyone thinks what they think," You're dizzy, blood rushing in your ears, "then it's true, only I never, we never... I've ruined your life and mine and I've never even gotten to really touch you, and it's wrong, I know it's wrong, but you're all I think about. It's killing me, this is killing me, and I can't,"

The door to the confessional is suddenly open, your words dying on your lips as the equilibrium of the little room changes. He's on you in a second, dropping to his knees before you, gathering you close in his arms and his lips on yours like he's done it a thousand times before. He presses up into your space, your legs parting open as wide as the narrow walls allow to slot his body perfectly between your thighs.

You suck in a harsh breath against his lips, tears still caught in your throat, and Yunho shakes his head, his forehead leaning against yours as he breaks the kiss, "Shh," he eases you, "I've got you,"

A sick, hot thrill rolls through you, "Yunho," his name a whine on your lips.

"I'm here," He whispers it like a promise, like he's yours, not God's.

His hands push at your skirt, rucking it up higher on your hips and maneuvering your body until you're slipping forward on the confessional seat with your hips tilted up.

"My sweet girl," He groans against your lips, fingers tugging your panties roughly to the side so he can slip the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit.

It's unholy, it's debauched, it's everything you dreamt up in your deepest fantasies when you touched yourself in bed, but if your life in this little town is really over you need it to have at least been real. You need him to have been real, even once. Just once.

"God," He chokes against your mouth as his fingers sink inside you, finding your slit slick and body trembling, "oh, God,"

It sounds so different on his lips, and you stifle a moan into his neck when he hits a particularly sensitive place inside you.

"Shh," He hushes you again, pressing one more kiss to your lips before he drops lower between your thighs and hitches your legs up and over his shoulders.

His tongue finds your core and you see colors. He kisses your cunt with a desperate, hungry need and you know with perfect clarity that it wasn't all in your mind. He's wanted too, he's needed you too.

His hands are hot on your hips, your fingers knotted in his hair, and you let him consume you, completely and wholly.

You come hard on his tongue, biting down on your lip enough to draw blood to stay quiet, and you think that nothing in the world would ever feel this good if it wasn't sacred.

It couldn't.

[hard--headed--woman]

Sooo you're used to it by now, here's my 4th special pride post, and today we're going to talk about

Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall !

Marguerite was born in 1880 and died in 1943. She was a British poet and writer, author of "The Well of Loneliness", a revolutionary and very important novel in lesbian literature. She never tried to hide her homosexuality.

Neglected by her parents as a child, she studied at King's College London, then in Germany. She reached adulthood without a vocation, and spent a big part of her twenties in a series of relationships with women who later left her to marry.

In 1907, at the spa town of Bad Homburg in Germany, Marguerite met Mabel Batten, a lieder singer nicknamed Ladye, and the two fell in love. Batten was 51 at the time, with a husband, grown-up daughter and grandchildren. Hall was 27.

The two move in together when Mabel's husband dies. At the time, Marguerite was known for her "masculine" appearance and constant wearing of "masculine" clothes; Mabel Batten nicknamed her "John", a nickname she kept all her life.

In 1915, Radclyffe-Hall fell in love with Una Troubridge, a cousin of Mabel's whom she had known for 10 years. Battel died the following year, and in 1917, the two women moved in together. The two lived together until Hall's death, despite Hall's many affairs (that Troubridge painfully tolerated).

She has written eight novels and several poems.

Her first novel, "The Unit lamp", (1924) tells the story of a young girl who dreams of moving into a London apartment with her friend Elizabeth (a so-called "Boston marriage") and studying to become a doctor, but feels trapped by her emotionally-dependent, manipulative mother.

The novel's length and complexity made it difficult to sell, so Marguerite chose a lighter theme for her next novel, a social comedy : "The Forge". The book was quite successful this time.

Her next two novels were a great success, especially "Adam's Breed" (1926), which won the Prix Femina and the James Tait Black Award, something that had only been achieved once before.

But her best-known novel is "The Well of Loneliness". Published in 1928, it tells the story of a butch lesbian, from her childhood in England to her stay in Paris, where she becomes a famous writer. The novel was the subject of an obscenity trial in the UK (despite not being sexually explicit), resulting in the destruction of all copies. The USA authorized its publication after a long, long legal battle. Considered a classic, an extremely important work of lesbian literature, "The Well of Loneliness" was 7th on Publishing Triangle's 1999 list of the best gay novels.

In 1930, Hall won the gold medal of the Eichelbergher Humane Award. She was a member of the PEN club, the Council of the Society for Psychical and a member of the Zoological Society of London.

She died of colon cancer in 1943, aged 63. Her impact on literature, and lesbian literature in particular, remains significant to this day.

You can find the list of her novels (and more details about her life) here !

And some of her poems here :

Hope you enjoyed, and see you tomorrow for the 5th post!

[brightlotusmoon]

I remember being shuffled around to random specialists who looked at my cerebral palsy and epilepsy and fibromyalgia and ADHD and still said I was fine. My lawyer was extremely good and got me a very sympathetic judge he knew well and vocational expert who firmly determined I needed the SSDI. The sheer fact that I was made to run around to a bunch of different doctors and fill out so many forms and prove every single symptom was insane.

The judge said he'd read through all 70 printed pages of my LiveJournal entries describing my seizures for years and decided that between that and the mixed cerebral palsy I absolutely deserved SSDI and he was very glad my husband and my cats helped me out.

This was back in 2012. I filed in 2010. In fact, I hired the lawyer who helped my friend, who was his fastest case in decades, and this woman had over forty medical conditions. Most people filing for SSDI are not as lucky.

And this is just SSDI. I am allowed to actually build a savings account, be married legally and stay married, and live my life without agencies peering over my shoulder.

I know an older couple who chose to get divorced and live apart rather than lose the wife's disability support.

[aestheticaltcow]

High School

Carmy didn't like high school, but he liked you. When you asked him to speak to this year's graduating class about being a chef, how could he not say yes?

The Bear Masterlist

Carmy was quiet and shy; he didn’t do great in school but managed. If it weren’t for Mikey, he wouldn’t have left the house much. On the other hand, you were the classic popular girl- beauty, brains, prom queen, student council president, and, of course, way out of his league. 

He couldn't believe it when you’d asked him to speak at your high school career fair. It had been years since he’d been in Chicago, but Carmy assumed you’d moved on to bigger ponds by now, so to hear you were president of the alum board was a surprise. 

“Okay, next up, we have Carmen Berzatto, part of our 2009 graduating class. He is one of the youngest chefs to win a James Beard Award, owns two restaurants here in Chicago, and is a three Michelin star chef. Everyone welcome Carmen!” you happily introduced. Carmy swallowed, feeling awkward with so much attention on him. As the two of you passed by each other, you couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was. As you sat down, another alumni board member whispered, “He got so cute…” to you. You bit your lip to suppress the giggles. Tight white t-shirt, patchwork tattoos, and disheveled curls… you’d always thought Carmy was cute in a ‘shy guy’ way, but wow… 33 looked good on him.

Carmy answered a few student questions, trying his best to avoid stuttering in front of everyone. You lost track of time as you listened to his velvety smooth voice as he explained some of the roles you’d see in a typical fine dining restaurant; you glanced at the time on your phone and realized he’d gone over his allotted time. You got up and stumbled slightly before getting up to the stage. Carmy noticed and said ‘thank you’ before handing off the mic.  “Okay, everyone, it's time to head out to the quad. Vice Principal Shore will be out there to direct you to our variety of college and vocational school booths, and if there are any alumni you’d like to speak to more, we’ll be out there too.”

You watched Carmy sneak out of the multipurpose room, “Hey, you guys, go ahead. I have to call Wolf’s dad.” you said to another alumni board member and watched as students exited the building. You walked outside and quickly picked up on the smell of cigarette smoke. “Carmy,” you giggled before following the scent behind the building. 

“Still smokin’ ciggies behind the mpr Berzatto?” Carmy shook his head as he let out a puff of smoke in the opposite direction of you, “You here to bust me?” he asked, leaning against the fence. Your heart fluttered. Did he know how cool and sexy he looked in that moment?  You shook your head. “Thanks for coming, Carmy. It was nice seeing you.”. Carmy grinned. “You-uh, you wanna get a coffee sometime?” he swallowed, hoping not to come off as a loser. “You’re very handsome and successful, Carmy; you don’t want to date me.” “Why’s that?” Carmy asked as he ashed his cigarette before throwing it in the trash can. You stood there with your hands on your hips, awkwardly rolling on your heels, “Well, I have a kid and uh… an ex-husband. I’m a workaholic, and I spend a lot of time worrying about my kid.” Carmy nodded “I like kids, no ex-wife, also a workaholic…Let me take you out on one date?”

[hadesoftheladies]

the sexual grooming inherent to the masochistic practices of femininity is so insidious. the way women's empathy is exploited, where we feel the constant need to affirm and validate other women, even when they ask us to validate their own degradation, gradually inhibits our own conscience and sense of dignity.

in my younger years, most of the girls and women i looked up to were male centred, whether around their sons, father, crushes, husbands, god, and so much of our bonding had to do with policing ourselves to ensure we were worthy of the love of these men.

i understood implicitly that complimenting and showing admiration for these women would only be meaningful if and when i congratulated them on their goal to achieving worth in the eyes of some man. whether that was calling them beautiful or pure.

how they'd panic over their looks, weight, social awkwardness, and how i'd rush to ease their distress by saying "no, no you're actually very beautiful and boy's are actually really into you."

soon, to be a proper friend, i'd have to affirm the men they were dating, the clothes they were wearing, the sex they were having. the insecurities never let up. they were still terrified little girls, they just hid it better. they'd quote the feminist cliches about men being trash, being a girl's girl, having their own career, but they'd always be fussing over their hair, their dress, their midriff, their face. always looking down on virgins, lesbians, single women.

they couldn't really relate with other women outside of a man. because they couldn't see themselves out of the performance for him. whether they performed piety or seduction.

and men have always weaponized it. using our love of women to exploit our emotions, to manipulate us into justifying whatever sick fantasy he wants to bring into fruition. this doesn't happen just with the post "sexual revolution" choice feminism, but in churches and conservative spaces, as well. where we need to affirm our mother's lives (not by acknowledging their own misery but by saying rather forcefully it was a fulfilling vocation). we have to affirm young marriages since "they're in love and making them wait is just unnecessary torture."

out of kindness, we affirm these people, these decisions, hence weakening our ability to think critically or speak boldly against the very institutions that harm and exploit women. by affirming our friend's or family's decisions, we no longer have the room to question if any of it is wrong. we become suggestible and complacent. and then complicit.

i want off this hellish carousel.

[theconstantsidekick]

heyyyy...how are you doing.????

I was just wondering that if you have the idea of writing one shots for static verse , could you.. maybe write something where static takes Bucky as her date to her Harvard reunion...

may be when she was studying , everyone used to be so jealous of her cuz she is basically a sassy smartass...but now in the reunion they are acting so nice because she is a lawyer/avenger.. Definitely faking niceness...

and Jamie boy being too proud of his girl...

The Class of '92 | b.b

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings)

Genre: Fluffy with a chance of angst.

Summary: Y/n goes to the Harvard Reunion to reap the benefits of the alumni fees she's been giving out for the last three and a half decades.

(This takes place after the events of Static: Get, Set, Glitch. However, it can be read as a stand-alone piece. But it’s fun. I promise.)

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Recreational Drug Use, Mentions of Sex, Minors DNI, 18+ Only.

a/n: I think I strayed a little away from the original premise? I'm sorry?

Bucky Barnes, The Boyfriend (other one-shots) | The Falcon, The Winter Soldier and Static | Static: Get, Set, Glitch | Static Verse Masterlist

If she were being completely honest, she never entertained the idea of going to her class reunions. The whole ‘being-half-alien-aging-like-a-nebula-and-looking-the-same-for-years-on-end’ thing kinda took the wind out of her sails whenever she even thought about accepting the invite.

But that was then. 

Now people know who she is, what she is. No more reasons to hide, no Ross on her ass trying to hunt her down for the Accords, no giant purple grape looking alien knocking at the door threatening to burn the world down, no younger brother constantly being confused as her older brother.

Fuck. She’ll never get used to that.

The moment the invitation popped up on her laptop screen, her first reaction was to call Tony.

“You’ve got Tony Stark. I’m probably busy saving the world or curing a hangover. You can leave a message at the beep but I only get back to people if they’re hot. F.R.I.D.A.Y. will delete your message if you’re not. You’ve been warned.” The pre-recorded voice-message cut off with a beep.

Exhaling harshly, she spoke softly, “I was calling to ask you if you wanted to go to my reunion with me. Free booze, snobby assholes, jealous losers who hate me for being smarter, and did I mention the free booze? Totally your scene.” She fidgeted with the folder on her desk, nervous about a voicemail. “But you’re busy… being a dead dick so… So I guess I’ll just skip it this year as well.”

Life had other plans, though.

Well, her beloved boyfriend James Bucky Barnes did.

“I can go with you?” He offered. 

“What?” she asked him, confused.

“To the reunion,” he answered easily, his eyes still fixed on the omelet he was making for her. “I can go with you. Can’t guarantee I’ll be as fun company as your brother, but I can show you a good time. Pull out all the stops, be the trophy husband of a lifetime.” He smiled at her then. “Only if you want to, though.”

And now here they were. 

“This was a bad idea,” she comments, sipping on her drink.

“Why?” Bucky asks her, more confident than her—which don’t get her wrong was hot as fuck, but very unlike them.

“They’re all… they’re all—”

“Old?” Bucky finished with an amused smile. 

She couldn’t help the smile that slipped out.

He looks good, comfortable and sen-fucking-sational. He’s wearing a black tux with a white shirt and black bowtie. She’d been a little too busy trying to decide what to wear to have noticed him changing into the outfit. Eventually, having finalized on a white twill suit and a blood red silk shirt with a matching tie, she stepped out of her room. And he was a fucking vision.

Looking at him might just be her favourite hobby. She could pursue that shit as a vocation.

“That happens sometimes.” Bucky tells her. “People do get old, you know?”

She looks around at the crowd. They’re at the prime location for people watching, standing at the bar, far in the corner of the vast room. The lights are dim, only sprinkles of yellow scattered around the venue, the rest is overshadowed by a sea of ocean blue. So, she takes the moment, the isolation and takes a while to soak in his words. 

‘People do get old.’

“Yeah… yeah. I know,” she responds solemnly.

He takes a moment too, not to look at the crowd. Bucky seldom looks at anything with interest apart from her. He does the same now, he looks at her, studying the expression on her face. With his assessment done, he says, “I’ve never seen you nervous before.”

“I’m not nervous,” Y/n bites back, scolding him with absolutely no heat whatsoever.

“I’ve never seen you anxious before,” he amends.

Rolling her eyes, “I’m not anxious.”

“Scared?”

She has to look at him then. Brows furrowed, she frowns. 

Bucky throws up his hands instantly, admitting his mistake with an adorable smile.

“I used to steal Bruce’s homemade tacos before he learned to control the Hulk,” she smiles too. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

He takes a step closer to her, his words are softer when he speaks but bold enough for her to hear with ease. Gently placing his hand on the small of her back, he asks, “Then what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I wasn’t exactly… well, let’s just say there’s a reason I avoided going to class when I was in college,” she answers. Bucky’s face scrunches up at the insinuation.

But before he can enquire about it any further, before she can warn him, a voice cuts in.

“That was because you used to be a facetious little know-it-all,” the man comments. “You didn’t need the classes anyway.” He smiles, and there is no warmth in it.

Bucky must notice because his arm tightens just a little around her.

This was bound to happen sooner or later. She decides to roll with the punches. She knew what she was getting into when she came here.

“Charles Walton,” she greets him with a smile, just as dead as his. “Been a long time.”

“I’d say the same, but you look exactly the same as you did back then—not a hair out of place. I’m not sure time even passed,” he jokes, or well he tries.

“What can I say? It’s the price of being an Avenger,” she bites back.

He laughs, a hollow thing. “Hey, Milkovich!” He yells out over her head. “Guess who showed up!”

Well, fuck.

That one shout is enough to draw the attention of the entire class of 92. Cause almost instantly there’s a crowd gathered around Bucky and her. There’s chuckles and whispers among them—some are bewildered at her presence while others seem itching to make this a battlefield. 

“Ah, the famous Avenger,” a female voice chimes in. “You're famous around these parts, you know?” She takes a couple steps closer to them. Assessing her from head to toe, “Not just for being an Avenger, but being so elusive that you didn’t show up for a single reunion… But at least now we know why.”

“Nice to see you too, Seline,” Y/n tells her, calm and centered.

“Shit, Stark!” Mickey Milkovitch balks. “You look the fucking same!” 

And fine, she can take it from Milkovich. The guy was always crass but never rude. He just lacked a fucking filter.

So the smile that she smiles is open and kind. “Thanks, Mick. I could say the same about you.” She’s not lying. The guy looks pretty good for his age… and for the copious amount of alcohol she remembers him consuming during every party and every lecture.

“Not as good as you, holy shit! You really don’t age, do you?” He asks and it’s genuine so again, he gets a pass.

Nodding, “Not enough. My telomeres don’t work right, I think. Rest of me is human… mostly.”

And Mickey seems to take a lot of pleasure in her answer—smiling, he holds up his glass to cheers. She meets him with her own glass.

“Can’t lie, it’s a surprise to see you here,” another woman speaks up. “We thought we’d seen the last of you at the graduation.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you, Candace. I saw the invite and I just couldn’t help myself,” Y/n bites back.

“Didn’t have time for us before?” Candace Huston asks.

“Ah.” Y/n never really liked these snobby prep school kids. Even after all these years, they’ve somehow managed to not change at all. She doesn’t know why she expected them to. “I was a little caught up.”

“Saving the world?” Archer Bass suggests, mocking.

“Yes,” Bucky cuts in before she can form some modest version of that answer. She can always count on him to stump the opposition while she reloads. “That’s the day job. Doesn’t pay as well as whatever it is you guys have been doing. And oh! Odd hours, really odd. But it’s good work, wouldn’t you say, sweetheart?”

She smiles, finding comfort in the warmth of his gaze. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a Personal Injury Lawyer.” Bucky smiles at that and fuck if that doesn’t just rile her up. “Oh! I almost forgot, this is my boyfriend—”

She’s cut off by Charles ‘Chickenshit’ Walton, “The Winter Soldier. We know who he is.”

“At least he’s a looker,” Seline snickers. “I’ll give you that.”

“The two of you make a great couple—The Winter Soldier and Static, ex assassin and ex assassin,” Candace adds with a snide smile. There’s more catty bullshit like that from the rest of the crowd but she kinda zones out.

And fuck it all to hell.

Her entire college life was avoiding these fools.

All her life she’d watched shows about the shitshow that is high school. She hadn’t attended it, of course but Harvard was supposed to be her first try. It was supposed to be her playing her hand at being utterly and completely normal, one with the crowd. College wasn’t supposed to be as brutal as highschool but not as uncaring as a desk job. It was supposed to be an easy middle between the two. Part of her was excited even. But the reality wasn’t all that movies made it out to be.

They were snobs, the fucking lot of them. Always looking at every tiny little detail, studying it a microscope, planning and scheming to find a chink in her armour just to break her down. She didn’t understand why then. Why they didn’t like her, why she was the outsider. Because despite everything she wasn’t exactly that different from them, not to their knowledge at least. Howie was fucking loaded, ipso facto she was too. None of them knew her past but everytime they looked at her their eyes were always hungry, always searching for some weakness.

She gets it now.

It wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t some twisted version of distrust.

It was straight up jealousy.

They were jealous of her.

They were jealous of her back then and if possible they are even more jealous of her now.

Y/n just laughs. She can’t help it, okay? It’s hilarious.

She really, genuinely believed at one point in her life that these fucking dipshits would figure out her secret, when all they were looking for was a way to top the class. These are some of the smartest individuals she’s come across—graduates of Harvard Law. Fuck! They were just kids fighting for brownie points when she was fighting for her freedom. God fucking damn it, she’s been so damn dumb. 

So she laughs.

Bucky looks at her for a second, raises his brow in concern. She waves her hand at him, letting him know she’s fine. It’s just funny.

“Something funny, Stark?” Archer asks, wearing a smile on his face that contradicts his tone which is just a little too shrill to be considered calm.

She shakes her head but continues chuckling.

“Don’t wanna share it with the rest of the class?” Charles bites. “Guess some things just don’t change.”

Y/n laughs a little harder. “My god, Charlie. You sure I’m the only one not aging here? Cause you sound like a sullen teenager.” She waves off his response before he can even form one. “Anyway, as I was saying, this is my boyfriend, Sergeant James Buchanon Barnes.” She drops a kiss on his cheek. “You can call him Sergeant Barnes… Well, except Milkovich. He’s just Barnes to you, Mick.”

Mickey seems pleased with her words, “Nice to meet you, Barnes.” He extends his hand to Bucky who takes it without hesitation. “Always thought your arm was really cool.” 

That one throws Bucky a little. He looks back at her, eyes big and a sneaky curve of his lip. It screams, ‘Where the fuck did you find this guy?’ But like she said, no filter on that one. 

“Why does Milkovitch get special treatment?” Seline rebukes her.

Y/n just shrugs. “Cause he wasn’t a dick to me in college?” Isn’t it obvious?

“Excuse me?” Candace exclaims like the hit was personal. “We were never anything but generous, which was more than what you deserved considering the shit you pulled.”

“One, that is wildly inaccurate. You were all dicks, all of you. But I don’t think I blame you for it, pompous kids do what pompous kids see. And two, what shit did I pull?” She waves at the bartender asking for a refill.

“You are seriously going to pretend you don’t know?” Archer throws back.

Taking the last sip from her drink she sets the now empty glass down on the nearest table. “Yes, enlighten me.”

“You were sleeping with Professor Keating to get the answers to all the tests,” Charles answers, disdain clear on his face.

“I—” She looks from his face to Bucky's, who feigns shock before breaking into a smile.

Charles cuts her off. “You hid it well enough but everyone knew you spent most of the free time between classes in his office. You scored well in every single one of his tests, which were impossible to crack and he was always so very eager to call on you in class.” He scoffs. “We were never able to find any concrete evidence to pin you down, we’ll give you that. But that doesn’t mean we were naive enough not to see it.”

“I—” She begins laughing again. “Professor Keating.” Fuck.

“What’s so fucking funny, Stark?” Archer pushes her. Well, he tries but before he can grab the collar he was reaching for, Bucky’s metal arm is already pulling him off.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Bucky warns.

“Get your hands off me!” Archer tries to brush Bucky off, pushing him back, trying desperately to get out of his grip, but come on. It’s Bucky. “What do you think you’re doing?!” 

“Saving you the ass beating of a lifetime, buddy boy. Be glad it’s me and not her,” Bucky comments causally as he twists Archer’s arm behind his back.

“It’s fine, Sunshine. Let him go,” she coos at him sweetly.

And because he’s Bucky, he urges Archer to take a few steps away from her and then simply lets him go.

“Are you still mentally unstable?! How dare you touch me? I’m gonna sue your Nazi ass for that!” Archer warns. 

“I mean, you can try. But he’s got a great lawyer,” Y/n tells him, grabbing her new drink from the waiter. She takes a sip. “Got him pardoned for countless assassinations. You think assault is where I lose that battle?” The blood drains from Archer’s face, all the color is gone. “And as for the Professor Keating matter,” she giggles again, before forcing herself to compose. “He was ex-KGB. I used to hang out with him after class to find out if he knew the updated location of HYDRA bases.”

“Ex-KGB?” Seline asks, just as pale as Archer.

“You expect us to buy that bullshit story? His name was Arthur Keating for Christ’s Sake!” Candace shouts.

“Which he changed when he asked for political asylum here. His real name was Boris Levitsky. His family was murdered by HYDRA when he couldn’t free some official high in their ranks. After that he was fairly willing to spill all about them,” Y/n explains.

“To a college student?” Charles question, clearly not buying it.

“To an undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. operative,” she corrects.

“You were an undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. operative back then?” Bucky asks her, reclaiming his position next to her with a steady arm around her waist.

“No,” she tells him. “But he didn’t know that.”

Bucky’s face breaks into a proud smile. The sprinkles of yellow around the venue seem to be attracted to her sun. They fall softly on his face, lighting up the curve of his cheekbones, the smile lines around his lips. He seems so much more comfortable in his skin than he used to before. And he shines brighter, if that was even possible. She thinks maybe she’ll have to carry sunglasses around from now on.

“How the fuck did you score so well then?” Seline question, furious at the revelation.

“Did you guys ever think maybe she’s just that fucking smart?” Bucky throws out, kissing her forehead. “My sweetheart’s a fucking genius!” He leans in closer. “A lesser man would be very intimidated by that, you know?”

He’s so close, she can taste his scent on the tip of her tongue. The smell of summer in the woods, and remnants of leather. It drives her insane.

“A lesser man, huh?” She teases. “You’re not intimidated by it then?”

“Oh I am,” he tells her. “Just not very intimidated.”

God, he’s so fucking beautiful.

“Hey! Lovebirds! We’re not done here,” Charles jumps in. 

Rolling her eyes and reluctantly turning back to face the asshat, she asks, “What do you want?”

“Winter Soldier here might think you’re all that, but I know better.” He looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust into flames purely out of anger. “You’re not that smart. Unlike you, some of us worked hard to get where we are. We didn’t rely on fake daddy’s money to make something of ourselves.”

Now that’s just stupid. “Charlie… Come on, man. Howard Stark was not my father, he was my best friend, I just needed a cover. And his money got me nowhere. And, and! The fucker went and got killed before I even graduated.” Bucky’s head falls at the mention, but her time at college was too closely knit to his passing for her to not mention it. “But even after all that if you think I got in because he bribed the board—I didn’t fucking graduate Summa Cum Laude by kicking my feet and batting my eyelashes. I barely came to college to even do that with perfect follow through. That was my dropping-acid-and-doing-fireball-shots phase. I’m surprised to be alive, honestly.” She takes a step towards him. “Maybe in retrospect it seems like everything was handed to me on a silver platter now that my life seems so glorious on the outside, but that wasn’t the case, dude. Part of me wanted to be a lawyer so I could fight for my freedom if the time ever came.”

“Freedom from what, Stark?!” He yells out. “Your life is fucking perfect! You’re an Avengers, governments step aside to make way for you. You’ve got a super hot boyfriend who can clearly throw a punch, what more could you possibly want?” 

Tony.

I want my brother back.

The answer is right there, on the tip of her tongue. But they don’t need to know it. They don’t really deserve it. Not their fault—most people don’t. 

So, instead she steps back, clasps her hands into Bucky’s. “Nothing, actually. You’re right. I couldn’t ask for more.” Someone in the back catches her eye then. “Lighten up, Charlie.” She looks around at the rest of them. “You’re supposed to be the brightest minds of the nation, not petty fucking 6th graders. Lighten the fuck up, kids. I assure you there are worse things to be than fucking Harvard graduates.” She pulls Bucky by the hand and this hunk of a man follows along without an ounce of hesitation, as always. She yells out without turning “I’d say it was nice to see you guys, but it really fucking wasn’t.” But then her steps halt. She turns, “All except you, Milkovitch. It really was nice to see you again. Call me sometime, we should catch up.”

“I don’t have your number,” Mickey replies innocently.

She smiles. “Fine then, I’ll call you.”

“You don’t have my number.”

Her smile just turns mischievous.

Mickey picks up instantly. “Of course,” he says, a little embarrassed. “World class spy—I forgot.”

Hugging the man quickly, she turns and grabs Bucky by the hand again and begins walking off.

“This was amazing! Let’s do this again next year,” Bucky yells out, waving at the gaping faces they’ve left behind.

“Shut up, James.” She hushes him without heat.

“Where you taking me, sweetheart?” He asks, but there is no real curiosity in his question.

So she says as much. “You don’t really seem that curious about it.”

“I’m asking for the fuck of it—to hear you talk. I love hearing you talk.”

“Sap.” She’s smiling.

“I’ll follow you anywhere, don’t care where you take me,” he promises. 

They’ve stopped walking, her target is in her eyesight so she’s all too worried. So she takes the moment to drink him in.

“FUCKING SAP,” she chides, pushing him a little.

Bucky (pretends to) stumble. “Only for you. Always for you,” he tells her, honest and true. He covers the distance between them with a few short steps. His hand comes to caress her jaw, gently—always so gently. He leans in. His lips brush against her as he speaks, “Till the end of my days, sweetheart.”

“Till the end of mine,” she corrects him and then closes the gap.

The best thing about kissing Bucky is that it always feels like the first time. No matter however many times she kisses this boy, every time it feels overwhelmingly new. It feels like her mind is melting, like she’s turning to mush under his hands—one flesh, the other metal. He always knows how to give her exactly what he craves, maybe because she mostly just craves him.

With one hand on her cheek, the other on the small of her back, Bucky pulls her in closer. His tongue tastes of whiskey, but his lips are all him. They are delectable enough to eat. It takes everything in her not to bite down too hard. But she can’t resist the urge to pull his lip between her teeth, biting just hard enough to leave them red. He kindly obliges by slipping his tongue into the mix. He’s so hungry for her, he’s always so fucking hungry for her.

Absent-mindedly she thinks maybe he feels it too. The inexplicable newness in the repeated action of kissing each other. Because hunger like that—hunger like his, seems insatiable. She would give away all of herself to it. Let him consume her whole. She will do just that… Just not here, not now.

Reluctantly, with great strength and determination, she pulls herself away. 

Bucky, this fucker, whimpers. “What?” He whines.

She can’t help but chuckle. “I need to one thing then we can just get the fuck out of here and do more of that—a lot more of that.”

He pretends to think for a second but she already knows she’s won him over. “Fine,” he says after a beat. “What do you need?”

“An answer,” she tells him, before fixing herself a bit and walking over to the woman who’d caught her eye before. 

She’s a tall woman, short black hair—a pixie cut that she pulls off flawlessly. She’s standing alone, smoking in the open area of the venue, looking out at the scene ahead of them.

Y/n approaches her cautiously. “Jeri Hogarth,” she calls out, making the woman turn. “You’re a hard woman to reach.”

“Y/f/n Stark.” Jeri doesn’t even turn to look at her. She keeps on staring straight ahead, smoking. “Did you ever consider, maybe I didn’t want to be reached?”

Y/n lets go of Bucky’s hand, but not before giving it a gentle press as a promise to come back soon. She walks up next to Jeri. “I did consider that possibility, but couldn’t bring myself to care about it, unfortunately.”

And then, finally Jeri turns to look at her, “What do you need for me? I mean it must be something big if you decided to show up here.”

Y/n shrugs. “It’s not big, I wouldn't say. I think it’s more that it’s… urgent?” That seems to intrigue Jeri, she cocks her brow in question. And Y/n answers, “I need to speak with Danny Rand.”

That seems to throw Jeri off. “I—I don’t know where he is. Besides, if you want his business—”

“It’s not about Rand Enterprises, Hogarth.” She clicks her tongue in disappointment. Nothing that fucking arbitrary would bring her here. “I want to talk to Danny’s friend. I want to talk to the Iron Fist.”

“I don’t—” Jeri looks like she’s at a loss for words which, yeah, a fairly new look on her. Y/n had very rarely seen Jeryn Hogarth lose her calm in class. They shared a lot of them, and while she wasn’t exactly kind to Y/n, she wasn’t unkind either.

“I know that you know, Jeri. I also know about Jessica Jones and… Kilgrave.” Y/n doesn’t want to be unkind to her either. “I am sorry about what happened…” Jeri just looks away. “I wouldn’t ask you if it was important, and I wouldn't be looking for Danny if it wasn’t urgent. But I need to talk to him.”

“And you think I can help?” Jeri challenges, finally finding her ground.

But Y/n isn’t here for a fight. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t know you could.”

“Why should I?”

“I don’t have a very good reason for that. I don’t think I have anything of value to you that I could even barter with? But I’ll owe you one,” Y/n offers.

“You’ll owe me one?” She asks, unconvinced.

Y/n shrugs. “Yes.”

“And that’s supposed to be good enough?”

For the second time tonight, Y/n just wears a mischievous smile with furrowed brows. 

Jeri seems to understand her without any words being spoken. “Yeah. That’s good enough.” She nods. “Okay, I can try to get a message to him, but there is no guarantee that he’ll respond.”

“He’ll respond,” Y/n answers easily.

Jeri eyes her suspiciously. “So, what’s the message?”

“Just tell him we need to talk,” Y/n answers.

“That’s all?”

“What else am I supposed to fucking say? The peacock rests peacefully in the moonlight?! This isn’t Mission Impossible. I’m not Tom Cruise. I just wanna talk to the dude,” Y/n rebukes.

“Fine,” Jeri tries to calm her down half-heartedly, turning back to the view ahead of her.

“Thanks, Hogarth,” Y/n says one last time before heading out.

Jeri takes out a fresh cigarette and lights it. “Just remember you owe me one.”

With that out of the way, Bucky and Y/n leave the reunion of the class of '92, hand in hand. It’s much later when they’re out for ice cream does Bucky ask the question she had been anticipating the entire night.

“Something was off tonight—before the whole sleeping with the teacher thing.” 

She chuckles at his words. “Was there?” She asks.

“Yeah,” he doesn’t let her dodge it. “You wanna talk about it?” He does give her the option to opt out. He’s so considerate, how can she deny him anything?

They are sitting on the curb outside the 24 hour ice cream shop. They are bathed in the harsh light from the streetlight. Bucky, she thinks, somehow manages to still look pretty in that. He has a chocolate ice-cream cone in his hand that’s melting away at a matching speed to the vanilla cone in hers. They’d spent a little too long lost in each other’s mouths to focus on the ice-cream in a timely fashion. Both of them are now trying to furiously make up for that.

It takes her a moment to find the words. “I… It’s hard looking around at the room and seeing so many people who are… who are…”

“Old?” Bucky supplies again.

She shakes her head, laughing and trying to lick the ice cream off the cone—save it from falling. “No, Jamie. Not that.”

“Then?” He prompts, leaning to lick the leftover ice cream off her fingers.

Taking in a long breath, she musters up her courage and begins. “Tony’s the same age as Milkovitch. Or well, Tony would have been.” Bucky’s eyes turn softer in an instant. “It’s weird to see it—people who used to be young, who used to look like me, a crowd that I could have blended into seamlessly become old and gray. I mean, I lived it with Tony but I was there to see it day in and day out. He aged in front of my eyes, so it felt—it felt…”

“Natural?” Bucky offers.

And yeah. Yeah, it did. So, she nods. “Natural,” she agrees. “I remember when I noticed his first gray hair,” she laughs. “I freaked the fuck out but I didn’t want to tell him, cause that seemed fucking shallow, you know? I tried to hide it but man, I don’t think I was doing a good job ‘cause two days later the poor kid had dyed it black—that one single strand.” Bucky laughs too. “I think he figured out why it was freaking me out and that was his way of—I don’t know—calm me down, maybe?” She clicks her tongue at the thought. “The wrinkles were an easy adjustment. It began with smile lines, crinkles around his eyes every time he’d laugh at a joke, so it was…”

“Comforting?” Bucky suggests, once again giving her the words she can’t seem to find.

She rests her head on his shoulder then, “Yes. It was okay after that—especially after Pepper. Watching him age began feeling like a privilege. It felt like he was growing old instead of, you know, dying?”

Bucky nods. “Are you worried about that now? With me?” She punches him in the side. “FUCK! What was that for?”

She pulls back to face him, “I am not thinking about that shit yet!”

“Oh I’m sorry!” Bucky yells out annoyed and animated. “I was just drawing the LOGICAL conclusion to the conversation, but of course, that was stupid.”

“You’re such a little shit, James,” she rebukes him, shoving him and getting back on her feet.

“I’m a shit?! What did I do?!” He gets up as well. “We keep making grand promises about how we’ll love each other to the end of your days because you’ll obviously live longer.”

“BUCKY, DON’T SAY THAT!” She begins walking towards their motorbike parked in the parking lot.

He follows behind, “It’s not breaking news, Y/n! It’s inevitable.”

“Bucky!”

“But I have a plan!”

That makes her halt. She turns to face him, he almost runs into her. “What’s the plan?”

He smiles all cheeky and insolent. “Freeze me for a decade once in a while.” She can’t believe her ears.”Put me in the fridge every ten years or so for a decade and then pull me out. I’m also open to being in the freezer for a year with a two year gap in the middle as well.” She wants to punch him again. “I haven’t done the math on which will make me live longer but both will definitely extend my lifespan significantly.” She is going to punch him again. “I age a little slower anyway, this was I think we could extend this relationship into the next millennium at leas—” She punches him again. “FUCK! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ONE FOR NOW?” 

Turning around, she begins walking off again. “You’re not ice-cream, Jamie. I’m not fucking freezing you!” She cans the ice-cream in her hand, having lost her appetite.

He follows her again. “I have another plan!”

“Shut up, Barnes!”

“What if we ask Banner to make me body like you guys did for Vision?! Put my consciousness in there?” Bucky asks as they reach their motorbike.

She pulls out the keys, handing them off to Bucky. “What made him capable of emotions was the Mind Stone, you got any spare of those lying around?”

Bucky hops on the bike and then thinks for a second, “Steve told me you guys put Zola in a big computer kinda thing.” She gets on behind him. “What if we did that? I know our sex life might suffer but—”

She punches him right under his ribs..

“STOP FUCKING PUNCHING ME! These ideas are golden.”

She punches him again.

Find other one-shots here. Find other Static Verse works here. tag list : @aryksworld @freeflyingphoenix @arikarapli @just-anotherstan @justab-eautifulmess @ceo-of-daichi @liketearsintherainn @paintballkid711 @starkleila @heyitsmereading @fairlygothparents @euphoria-svt @sidepartskinnyjeans @mini-kunoichi @third-broparcelicito @siwiecola @haleybutnotthecomet @mvaldez7821 @rockybutmakeitlame @romanoffswoman @ashpeace888 @hopeofwinter @percabethfangirl987 @lilfuturescars @hailqueenconquer

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[guiltyonsundays]

In defence of Will Ladislaw

George Eliot's characterisation of Will Ladislaw is one of the few aspects of Middlemarch that is not universally praised, with no less a person than Henry James commenting in 1873 that he lacked “sharpness of outline and depth of color”, making him the novel’s “only eminent failure.” And while Will's character is certainly not as clearly defined as some of the other characters in the novel, I believe that this was absolutely intentional on Eliot's part. Middlemarch is full to the brim of characters who believe they know exactly what they want—not least among them, our two protagonists, Dorothea Brooke and Tertius Lydgate, whose ardent ambitions and inflexible attitudes lead them into catastrophic errors of judgement and unhappy marriages.

By contrast, Will's lack of strongly defined goals and his changeability are almost his defining character traits. He's aimless and pliable, prone to rapid mood swings and drastic career changes, with even his physical features seeming to "chang[e] their form; his jaw looked sometimes large and sometimes small; and the little ripple in his nose was a preparation for metamorphosis. When he turned his head quickly his hair seemed to shake out light."

Will’s inscrutability is closely tied to his ambiguous status within the rigid class structure and xenophobic society of Victorian England, with his Polish ancestry and “rebellious blood on both sides” making him a target for suspicion. He is repeatedly aligned (and aligns himself) with oppressed, marginalised, and outcast populations—Jewish people, artists, and the poor.

He serves as a narrative foil for characters like Lydgate and Edward Casaubon, who prioritise specialist expertise above all and are consequently incapable of broad knowledge synthesis. He critiques Casaubon's life's work as being "thrown away, as so much English scholarship is, for want of knowing what is being done by the rest of the world." By contrast, Will serves as Eliot's defence of the value of a liberal education. One of the first things that we learn about him is that he declines to choose a vocation, and instead seeks to travel widely, experiencing diverse cultures and ways of life. He has broad tastes and interests, trying his hand at poetry and painting before eventually pursuing a career in politics.

He also functions as a narrative foil for Dorothea. Will is initially apathetic to politics, whereas Dorothea initially professes herself to be disinterested in art and beauty. This is perfectly encapsulated in their exchange in Rome, when Dorothea declares, "I should like to make life beautiful—I mean everybody's life. And then all this immense expense of art, that seems somehow to lie outside life and make it no better for the world, pains one", to which Will replies, "You might say the same of landscape, of poetry, of all refinement [...] The best piety is to enjoy—when you can [...] I suspect that you have some false belief in the virtues of misery, and want to make your life a martyrdom.”

By the end of the novel, Dorothea unlearns some of her puritanical suspicion of sensual pleasure, whereas Will becomes more serious, compassionate, and politically engaged, dedicating his life to the accomplishment of humane political reforms. They are both flawed individuals, who ultimately become more well rounded through their relationship with each other. Admittedly, Dorothea's influence on Will is more significant than his on her—and once again, I believe that this was intentional on Eliot's part.

In my opinion, the negative response to Will Ladislaw at the time of Middlemarch's publication (and in the centuries since) was and is profoundly informed by gendered expectations of masculine dominance in romantic relationships. Will's marriage to Dorothea has often been described as disappointing, with many readers and critics viewing the ambitious Lydgate as the embodiment of the ideal husband that Dorothea outlines at the beginning of the novel—a talented man engaged in important work for the betterment of humanity, to whom she can devote herself.

However, one of the central themes of the novel is that people are often mistaken in their beliefs about what they want, and Dorothea's marriage to Edward Casaubon certainly demonstrates that she would not in fact be happy living her life in submission to a man who does not respect her opinions. I firmly believe that Lydgate's misogynistic attitudes and expectations would have made it impossible for him to be happy in a marriage of equals with a woman like Dorothea. He is explicitly drawn to Rosamond Vincy because she has "just the kind of intelligence one would desire in a woman—polished, refined, docile."

By contrast, George Eliot made a deliberate choice to pair Dorothea with a man who is not ashamed to be influenced by her, and indeed looks up to her as his moral superior. Through Dorothea's influence, Will discovers his life's work. In turn, by marrying Will, Dorothea is able to pursue her true passion. As a result of their influence on each other, these come to mean the same thing—reform. Thus, George Eliot grants Dorothea Brooke a subversively feminist, politically progressive, and profoundly cathartic ending: a life of companionate marriage, sensual pleasure, and meaningful work, in which Dorothea can devote herself (within the limited means available to her as a woman in the 19th century) to the achievement of just and compassionate reforms that "make life beautiful" for everybody—herself included.

[brian-in-finance]

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WHAT THE STARS ARE SAYING

Check out why so many famed actors use Backstage

Trusted since 1960

Founded in 1960, Backstage has a storied history of serving the entertainment industry. For over 60 years Backstage has served as a casting resource and news source for actors, performers, directors, producers, agents, and casting directors.

Over that time, Backstage Magazine has also appeared on numerous TV shows, such as “Mad Men,” “Entourage,” “Glee,” “Oprah,” NBC's “Today” show, Comedy Central's “@Midnight”, NY1's “On Stage,” and “Saturday Night Live,” as well as multiple mentions on shows like “Inside the Actor’s Studio,” “Girls,” and appearances in films such as “13 Going on 30,” the Farrelly brothers' “Stuck on You” and Spike Lee's “Girl 6,” and even a mention in Woody Allen's short-story collection “Mere Anarchy” and Augusten Burroughs' novel “Sellevision” – and Backstage has received accolades from multiple Academy Award-, Emmy-, and Tony-winning actors and directors. (Plus, the hit musical “The Last Five Years” even includes Backstage in its lyrics: “Here's a headshot guy and a new Backstage / Where you're right for something on every page.”)

CAITRÍONA BALFE

ACTRESS

"I still get Backstage emails 'cause I still subscribe to Backstage. [Backstage is) kind of the Bible in the beginning, which is amazing. Samuel French and Backstage go hand in hand, you know? You go there for your plays when you're in classes, and then you get your Backstage."

Backstage 1

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Brian’s Note: The following story originally appeared in April 2015. Most recent update is December 2020.

The Gorgeous Determination of Caitríona Balfe

Caitríona Balfe is on the move. That's been true most of her adult life— especially the 10 years she was modeling for Victoria's Secret, Dolce & Gabbana, and others—but as she sits on the rooftop patio of a West Hollywood hotel in mid-March, she mentions that she's pulling up stakes from Los Angeles.

"It just feels silly to have an empty place for 10 months until I figure out what I'm doing with my life," the Irish-born actor says. "I've rented the same place for the last four years and now I have to give it up." Her apartment is being razed to put in condos, but her departure from L.A. is extra poignant considering this is the city where Balfe journeyed when she decided to put aside that successful modeling career and focus on the vocation she'd always wanted: acting.

Photo: Luc-Richard Elie

"I've moved so much since I was 18," she says. "I mean, l've lived so many places. New York, I lived in for almost eight years [while modeling], and that's been the longest of anywhere since I left Ireland. But L.A. is where I came and said, 'OK, this is what I wanna do with my life.' "

She refuses to think of her move as a permanent one, though. "I'll be back," she declares, "but it feels really sad. My little apartment, it's got so many memories."

Balfe's sadness is no doubt mitigated by the fact that part of her need to move is due to the precipitous rise in her fortunes. She'll soon be flying to Scotland to shoot the second season of "Outlander," which returns to Starz April 4 to conclude Season 1.

When last we saw Balfe's Claire, the resourceful British nurse who comes home after World War |I only to be inexplicably teleported into the 18th-century Highlands, she was half-naked with a knife to her breast. Don't worry: Claire will get out of that scrape, but more perils await-to say nothing of the emerging multi-era romantic triangle developing between her, the Scottish warrior Jamie Fraser (Sam Heughan), and her 20th-century husband, Frank Randall (Tobias Menzies), who wonders where she's gone.

Based on the much-beloved Diana Gabaldon novels and developed for television by "Battlestar Galactica" rebooter Ronald D. Moore, "Outlander" is an ostensibly lush period-piece-within-a-period-piece drama that's consistently richer and thornier than its romance-novel trappings suggest. And much of the credit goes to Balfe, who had managed small parts in films such as “Super 8” and “Now You See Me” before landing the central role in this adaptation.

In person, Balfe is far less imposing than the steely Claire, who has to weather the dangers of being a woman in sexist, violent Scotland in the 1740s. Cast late in the preproduction of “Outlander”—Moore has mentioned in interviews how hard it was to find the right Claire—she didn’t have time to consider what the role would do to her life. “I’m so bad on social media," she confesses on this warm afternoon, nestled underneath a cabana. "I had set up an account on Twitter maybe a year or so before I got this job and had, I thought, a lot of followers — 250 or something, and most of them are my friends. Within about a month or two, it was thousands of people — and my phone, I didn't know how to turn off the alerts, so it was just going all the time. That was the beginning of the awareness."

Growing up in the small Irish community of Monaghan, Balfe had considered acting from an early age. ("I was devastated that I wasn't a child actor," she says, smiling. But after traveling to Dublin to study theater, she changed course once she received an offer to model. It wasn't a secret passion of hers, but who turns down a trip to Paris? "My parents felt that I should finish college," Balfe recalls, "but l'm slightly headstrong, so l took their advice and I completely ignored it."

Over the next decade, she lived in France, Italy, Germany, and Japan, her modeling inexperience hardly a detriment. "You'd be amazed how little information or training goes into it," she says. "When I first arrived in Paris, I was told to take a bus to the office. I left my suitcase — I barely spoke any French — and someone took me across the street, helped me buy a Carte Orange. They printed out five addresses that I had to go to that day, and then they sent me off." She still remembers at 18 riding the subway alongside 16-year-old aspiring Russian models, who knew no French or English, homesick and sobbing their eyes out. "That was just the way it was," says Balfe. "You become pretty tough. When I went to Japan, it was similar: They would drive you to their castings, but the minute you got a job, it would be like, 'Here's an address, here's a map. Good luck.' They don't have signposts in English in Japan, so the map and the address are not always very helpful."

Hear Balfe recount her early misadventures in modeling and you can't help but think of Claire, who's equally thrown to the wolves once she arrives in the 18th century amid people wary of the English in general and assertive women in particular. "Honestly, l've been in so many situations in my life where you just are completely displaced," Balfe says. “You have to adapt very quickly and figure it out. I definitely think that informs Claire a lot. It helped me understand her."

Did moving to Paris at such a young age teach Balfe that she can cope in any circumstance? "I think I didn't really realize that until many years later," she replies. "I have a great knack of not thinking about things and just going for it. You learn the hard way sometimes that you're able to get through, but sometimes it's quite tough when you're in a situation where you don't know anyone and you're trying to find your way around cities. But if an opportunity presents itself and it seems like a good idea, l'm just like, 'OK, let's do it, then I'll figure it out.'”

The decision to reconnect with her acting ambitions was conducted just as boldly. Ready to quit modeling, she moved to Los Angeles because a writer she was dating lived there. He was the only person she knew, but she had read a Vanity Fair interview with Amy Adams in which she said she trained with Warner Loughlin. "I could walk to that place from my ex-boyfriend's house," she says, "so l was like, 'Well, I'm gonna go there because I can't really drive. I started from scratch. I didn't have any managers, I didn't know any agents, I hadn't acted in almost a decade." But she just kept taking classes, moving from Loughlin to the studios of Sanford Meisner and Judith Weston. "I think when I first got here, I had a nice little air of delusion: 'It's gonna work out,'" she says with a laugh. “You just don't know how."

And then came "Outlander." By email, Moore admits that he didn't know Balfe's work until her audition tape came unsolicited to his office from her agent. Once she was chosen for Claire, he made it clear how demanding the job would be. “I told her in our first meeting that this was going to be an even bigger responsibility and workload than the normal TV lead," he writes. "Because the story was being told from Claire's point of view, Cait was going to be in every scene, every day for months, which is an extraordinary amount of work, far beyond what most actors are ever asked to do."

Moore's warning didn't faze Balfe. Writes Moore, "After she met with the president of Starz... and it was clear that she was going to land the role, I walked her to the elevator and just before the doors closed on her, I said 'Your life is about to change forever,' and she gave me a grin that was both thrilled and slightly nervous. I never saw her hesitate after that."

She's never hesitated before. As Balfe prepares to say goodbye to L.A. (for now, she thinks back to her early days in the city, trying to convince casting directors that she was more than just a model. "I went on many, many, many, many auditions that were Hot Girl No. 2 — you wanna shoot yourself," she says, laughing. "But, you know, I'm very lucky that l was even getting those auditions in the beginning. And it toughens you up. At least for me, to have that fuel to prove people wrong—it definitely spurs me on and makes me wanna work harder." Then she smiles conspiratorially. "And shove it to them."

Backstage 2

Remember… I told her in our first meeting that this was going to be an even bigger responsibility and workload than the normal TV lead. — Ronald D Moore

[hologramcowboy]

I just read an ask when certain anti daneel blog replied and claimed that Jensen abused daneel, I'm sorry but this is super hypocritical comming from anti daneel blog , like theses blogs spend years taking about awful D is, how they cant tolerates her voice, her face and her attitude, and they only knew her on surface level , now imagine being in Jensen's shoes, he knew for how long 15 years? The person that has to deal with Daneel 24/7 is no one but Jensen! and pls dont tell me he brought it up on himself we dont shame woman who stay in abusive relationship and we should do the same for men, do ppl expect him to be happy and relaxed the whole time ? never be angry or mad, he is a human and not a sheep that smile and do whatever she want him to , oh poor daneel he wasn't nice when he walked away from her to sign fans autographs, will guess what he doesn't have to be when she is a literal bitch , you can see that 2 minutes later in the same video she was shoving him forward, she is disrespectful , always made fun of him , rarely if ever had anything nice to say about him but I guess Jensen always need to treat her like the queen she think herself is, put in your mind that she was bitch since day one while Jensen used to be way nicer several years ago , yeah there was no chemistry btw them but he always speak highly of her and was way more tolerant towards her , he only recently started to be passive agressive when he talks about her so if he fed up with her and strarted to grow spine and put her in her place then good for him , but I doubt this is the case and I still think she is in full control of everything otherwise we wouldn't get the abomination that called TW , he sacrified his relationship with jared and lost half of the fandom to give his useless talentless wife a job and as one of the anon mentioned she is the one that send him back to work when he wanted to have vocation, I just think what happened here is that Jensen is older now and less tolerant of BS , he doesn't have job to run away from her and he is stuck in miserable marriage to take care of his little children that he never ask for ( another thing he didnt want and agreed to do just to make her happy) so if I was him I'd be angry too.

This is an older ask, I decided to reply to it because something’s been on my mind lately. The dangers of one sided views.

Let’s get one thing clear, both Jensen and Danneel show disdain and contempt for each other. Both have displayed less than ideal partner behaviour. Not sure what this anon was reading at the time but my guess is they saw one of my posts in which I mentioned Jensen was not behaving like a stand up husband.

There’s this narrative going around that vilifies Danneel without giving Jensen responsibility. That basically makes Jensen into a baby easily controlled by the evil, manipulative, witch Danneel.

I’m not saying Danneel can’t be manipulative, I’ve always called her out when she has been. I’m saying there’s an entire dedicated side of fandom that basically views Jensen as an abused baby who is no longer in control of his life. I’ll admit that, in the beginning, I too fell for these narratives but, over time, observing Jensen’s choices, it became clear where his values lie. He’s not the ideal husband, he’s career centered, he never takes responsibility for anything, everything is on Elta. Those are not the signs of an abused man but rather a man that has created a life of convenience and for whom family life comes second. I’m really tired of receiving anon messages about Jensen being abused.

Is Elta demeaning, devaluing and all of that? Yes, undeniably.

Is Jensen powerless? In no way, shape or form!!

If he is in a marriage with Danneel is because he chooses to be as long as it is convenient to his lifestyle. He lets her get away with certain behaviours as long as it serves him.

Jensen is a highly privileged man who holds all the cards when it comes to his career and personal life. Let’s please stop pretending he is a helpless baby run by Danneel the witch. Again, I know she’s manipulative but, at the end of the day, everything she is allowed is thanks to Jensen. The very reason she even has children is thanks to Jensen, her recent roles and titles - thanks to Jensen, recent press - thanks to Jensen, getting away with being condescending and devaluing on stage - thanks to Jensen. It’s a choice, at the end of the day.

While I have zero doubt he is unhappy due to the choices he’s made so far, I no longer blame Danneel for his misery because he holds the power to change his path entirely. Many actors in toxic relationships have divorced and still enjoy a career so if Jensen is holding back from divorcing it’s due to choosing to stay in a relationship where both partners feed off each other’s unhealthy dynamics.

It takes two people to form a dynamic. Let’s give responsibility where it is due, because being responsible for one’s own boundaries, wellbeing, life path is where freedom and healing begin. Being responsible is being empowered as opposed to power-less. Shitty person as she may be, Danneel is fully supported in her shenanigans by Jensen, he approves of her everything so let’s stop pretending like she’s some supernatural evil thing that moves in the dark and start acknowledging just how much Jensen enables her and, while we are at it, start acknowledging he’s no angel either. I dislike Danneel but I also feel sorry for her, for her marriage situation but, I guess, at the end of the day, you sow what you reap and they both chose fame and money over deeper values.

This is my view, purely, take what resonates and leave the rest.

[apenitentialprayer]

Being a husband and father isn’t about making me feel good. It’s about service and sacrifice. It is in the emptying of ourselves that we will live up the the dignity of this vocation. I can’t empty if I am constantly giving myself reasons why I am fine the way I am.

Renzo Ortega (What Being a Stay-At-Home-Dad Has Taught Me About Being A Husband)

[marinas-drafts]

|| Sarge & Lil Mama

|| Finishing What They Started ||

Blurb: 1k word count

Warnings: PG13 -Mentions of gun violence, assassination attempt, mentions of the murder of Sam Cooke, discussions about the real mob connections to record labels that threatened Cooke and others, Elvis being a protective husband and daddy, slightly misogynistic commands for a woman to give up her vocation??

Note: this is very much self indulgent for my own fascination with Sam Cooke and my theories regarding why he was shot dead in a Los Angeles motel while at the top of his fame, dismantling segregation with his performances, starting up a new label where artists owned their work and becoming publicly supportive of the likes of James Brown and Cassius Clay. He’s was RCA’s second most successful artist right behind Elvis Presley, a lovely human and an incredible artist, if you haven’t listened to him I throughly encourage you to, he’s groovy 💋 You may recall that in the proposal fic of Sarge, Elaine mentions having helped produce Cooke’s recent first record and Elvis urges her to marry him, there’s always time for music ventures after babies

Sarge & lil Mama Masterlist

February 1965

“Elvis, you don’t understand!” Elaine insists as if there’s nuance to the fact she’d just got shot at in broad daylight on Memphis’ Main Street with Jesse in her backseat.

“The hell I do!” He screams back, disheveled from the beating he’d administered her bought-off driver and gloriously beautiful in the greatest rage she’d ever seen take over him. Their sunny nursery on the top floor at Graceland was illuminated by a cheerful late winter’s sun and the pastel’s of the empty baby crib and curtains was in stark contrast to the dark mood hanging over the couple.

Elaine had gotten three shots into the windshield of the car that had done the drive-by and the Shelby county police were on a manhunt and giving Graceland’s phone an update call on the quarter hour.

Elvis hadn’t waited for no police when he’d heard shots outside the studio. Runnin’ out and finding no other culprit to get his hands on save the most recently inducted member of the Memphis Mafia who’d paused in a damn intersection plenty long enough to allow the hitmen to aim, fire and leave despite Elaine’s screams and threats. The man wasn’t recognizable in his mug shot, so swollen and bloodied was he from Elvis’ ire.

“Woman,” Elvis claws at his destroyed pompadour with gnarled hands, “you tell me our friend Sam Cooke didn’t die by accident, ya tell me he got taken out with two bullets in him and bled out on some seedy motel floor -not for some damn hooker but over y’all’s lil venture. You get your car windows blown out by a twelve gauge, my fanmail’s laced with love letters from the fuckin’ Chicago mob warnin’ us, sayin’ leave off the music level venture -or else. Ya tell me ya ain’t paranoid then ya ask me to let ya just keep at it? W-w-what do ya expect me to do, Tink? Huh? W—w-What?” he is bellowing at her by now, his terror coming out in anger, and Elaine just stares at his positively battered fists.

“E, your knuckle’s bleedin-“

“-don’t change the goddamn subject!”

“I’m not it’s just- it’s drippin.” she mutters meekly as the lemon yellow carpet specks from crimson drips.

He sticks the offending fist in his mouth and sucks at the cut before continuing, his voice shaking, “Ya tell me all this then ya insist on goin’ about your damn career! I don’t get ya. I really don’t get ya.”

“It’s not just my career, Elvis!” she begs, “It’s yours! It’s the future of dozens of independent record makers hinging on this. If I just lay back after this -we ain’t gonna have a free music industry where artists get their rights, own their work! We’ll always be payin’ up to the mob -and we ain’t ever gonna be free of Colonel without it! This is why they’re so damned scared, E, so scared they’d turn to murder! I’m doing this for us, keepin’ at it for you!”

“W-w-we got enough as is, Tink.” he whispers, eyes wide and scared for her as he looks down at her, pastel blue coat grimy and bloody as his hands, a mockery of their pristine little life. “We got enough as is, an’all that risk takin’ -i-it ain’t your job, sweetheart. That’s man's work.”

“They killed that man, Elvis.” she repeated disbelieving the truth that’s been haunting them these past two months. “They’ve killed Cooke. Our friend, my collaborator. Killed him dead. And they think they’ve got us all scared, ‘cept for me. And they tried to finish it today.”

“Yeah.” he agreed, eyes watering, “And I ain’t gonna let that happen to ya ever again, I just ain’t. Not even if I gotta chain ya to my bed.”

Elaine swallowed down the warmth she felt rush through her at his rampant protectiveness. “A couple more months and we’ll be set, we can switch you over, you’ll be independent.” she sniffles, “You won’t be beholden to the colonel. You’ll have options.”

“I-I-I d-don’t need rid of him, Tink?” he disagrees while his tone stays questioning, still unable to understand her icy animosity towards the man. “He done gave us all this!”

“-and to quote your mama, we don’t need all this.’ We never have.” Elaine replies, putting her hand over his fist as he’s walked closer to her seat on the edge of the nanny bed, “But it wasn’t him, it was you that gave us all this. He goes on like he’s connin’ the nation into lovin’ ya. What a fool. There’s not a soul on God’s green earth who didn’t love ya once they knew of ya.”

“I don’t need all them lovin’ me.” Elvis whispers, his eyes glued to her lips as he sits down beside her gingerly as if fearful he’ll hurt her while he’s still keyed up, “Jus’ you. Tink I can’t do nothin’ -nothin without ya.”

“Elvis, just give me a few months more,” she begs softly as they sway towards each other, “give me your men and guns and what else, but let me finish. For Sam. And for us.”

His nose brushes hers, long and elegant and nuzzling her cheek and the bridge of her own, nuzzling tears she didn’t notice she had shed, his breath ghosts over her parted lips.

“No.”

He answers as he slots his mouths over her own gasping one, dragging his lips over and up and to the side of her own, smooching her clean, savoring the softness of them like he nearly lost her.

Which he had. He almost had.

He grips her tighter and forces her to accept his terrified love, bending her backwards in his fervor, massive hand, so recently used to maul her attacker, now cradling the back of her neck tenderly, rubbing at the soft spots on either side of her skull.

“Elvis-“ she whimpers at the denial.

“No.” he mutters and shakes her by the neck like a kitten, “Lovin’ ya gives me enough right as it is, but I got more, you know I’ve got more reason. You're my children’s mother! You ain’t meant to be out there gettin’ shot at! Working nine to five like some sunnuvabitch’s damn Secretary. I married me a woman not a-a-“

“I’m doin’ this for us.” she insists weakly.

“And I’m the one who decides for us.” he reminds, his hand still firm on her neck and those lean, piano playin’ fingers span all the way to her pulse point, she thinks she feels pressure increasing there, “And I say no. Be my wife, Tink, be their mama. S’why I married ya.”

Hope y’all enjoyed! Your “bugging” and “screaming” is music to my ears, fuel to my fire and keeps me writing, please never hold back -this is a safe space for feral little Elvis loving rodents…like you and me.

If you’d like to be tagged in this particular series please drop a note below. I’ll admit I’m disorganized and have trouble keeping all the requests sorted when they’re scattered, what I do check regularly are the requests in the notes for chapters -and I do manage to get those added. So, if you’ve put in a request and I’ve failed ya, or if you’re new and would like to be added, please pop a note below. Xoxo 💋

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[jomiddlemarch]

A letter always seemed to me like immortality

Everyone Diana wanted to write to was dead.

Walter, what seemed like a dozen lifetimes ago, at Courcelette if his last letter to Rilla was to be believed; Diana had often wondered whether he had already considered himself a dead man walking before the day of the last battle, the boy he’d been destroyed beyond repair or rebirth.

Aunt Leslie, whom she’d found it easier to talk to than her own mother, perhaps because she’d also had a brother she adored. Perhaps because she’d left Glen St. Mary and never missed it. 

Perhaps because Leslie liked whiskey better than tea, newspapers better than poetry. 

Una, who’d been too pale since she barely survived nursing her father and stepmother through the Spanish flu, who’d been someone everyone underestimated or decided to treat as a martyr, who would not have judged Di the way her own sisters would. 

Rosalind Foyle, whom she’d had to ask about as discreetly as she could, counting on her general reception as a cheerful and polite Canadian, not much like a bossy Yank, to yield her the few details she’d squirreled away. An artist, a mother. A beauty. Better-bred than her husband, well-liked, she’d had elegant hands and never forgot to wear gloves.

Diana only wore gloves to operate and if an actual gale was blowing in a blizzard.

Who had thought all she wanted was to go to France, to make something of her life that would last her the rest of it. That might make the rest of it of a duration she could bear, an end her family could cope with or justify why she’d never return to PEI.

Dear Una, You’re the best one to write to, I think. The one who’d mind the least, like it the most. The least awkward for me to imagine reading this, the least likely to tell me something I don’t want to know. I leave for France in a few weeks and now I don’t want to go. Or rather, I do and then I don’t. There’s something holding me in England now, something to do with Walter, a mystery. Men, who’ve died. A man who’s alive, very much so.

A man I want to know. His name is Foyle. Christopher. He knew Walter, said Walter knew him as Kit. Everyone calls him Foyle or sir or Superintendent. Christopher. Oh Una, I thought this was behind me. That it was something I’d never have to deal with, some sort of consolation of being a woman in a world missing a generation of men. I thought I wouldn’t know this and that was a relief, watching you and Rilla and Nan. Faith. Mary. I thought it was fair, that I’d never know heartbreak like this. And now there’s Christopher. A half-dozen dead men. Walter’s poem. And France, waiting for me. I have to go, I know that, but how do I go wanting to stay here, a place I can’t call home. Wanting to come back.

Christopher. I like writing his name because I oughtn’t say it often. That’s what a young girl does, lovesick, dull, embarrassing herself, making everyone around her smile behind their hands unless it’s Miss Cornelia, scolding you for making a fool of yourself and for what, a man? What’s a man worth, I ask you—can’t you hear her say it, tart, ready to wash her hands of us— I don’t care what a man’s worth, Una. Just Christopher. And I can’t answer the question, not to satisfy Miss Cornelia or you or myself.

You’d write me back something comforting, if you could. If you hadn’t died before your time, twice over, after the telegram, after the epidemic. I should have insisted you leave before me or with me. I should have told your father you were worth more than all the rest of them put together or made Dad send you away to convalesce, somewhere warm, where you might have lolled about, turning brown in the sun. I’ve said I’ll go to France and sew up the men who need sewing up. Cut off the parts that need cutting off. I’ve said that’s my life, my vocation, as important as Mother’s poetry, as Walter’s, as the babies Jem delivers and the columns Ken Ford writes, and it must be but now there’s murder and Christopher to contend with, a dozen mysteries at the heart of me. For it seems I’ve a heart after all, Una. It beats and beats and leaps when it oughtn’t. It will break, I know it shall.

Christopher. I’ll take a dream in lieu of a letter. A flower, out of place, in lieu of a word. Answer me if you can, Una. You can’t and I know that, but I’ll still hope, silly Di Blythe.

She put the letter in an envelope but left it unsealed and unaddressed.

Left the envelope in an otherwise empty drawer of the desk in her flat. If she didn’t return from France, well, that didn’t bear thinking about too closely. If her papers were sent back to Canada, her father would likely burn the letter rather than let her mother see it unless if gave it to Nan, thinking her twin would derive some comfort and, happily married to Jerry, the bonny wife and mother Di had not made of herself, could weather any pang it gave her.

If somehow it ended up with Christopher, he’d know how she’d once felt.

She could make that happen, writing his name across the white field of the envelope, but that was too much like a dare, and for all she was her father’s daughter, she still had her mother’s wise fear of the fey.

She’d written his name enough. She’d hope she’d come back to say it.

[margindoodles2407]

Fellas is it wrong to feel less holy for wanting to get married instead of entering religious life. Asking for a friend

In all seriousness. I just... I mean, half the people who know me think I'm going to enter the convent. And I love the religious life! It's a beautiful and noble vocation and I commend and love all the women who have given their lives so fully and completely to God!

But... it hurts me a little, that people think that I have to become a sister because I love the Lord. As if I'm too holy and pure to do anything else. I kind of feel put on a pedestal, and an undeserved pedestal, because I am- to use my favorite expression of St Paul's- the foremost of sinners. I have so many problems. I'm violent and proud and lose my temper too easily, my prayer life is atrocious, and I don't really want to get into it here, but I've had a huge, lifelong struggle and battle against lust that with God's help it looks like I am finally getting over. And I am working on it, and I am offering my broken, sinful self to the Lord and striving to change! To be holier and more patient and kinder and humbler and more chaste and more prayerful and, in a word, more Christ-like! Because that's truly what I want!

But I don't necessarily want that in a convent.

Ever since I was little, the deepest desire of my heart has been to be a mother and a wife. I remember preschool career day, everyone else came in wearing their firefighter and doctor and veterinarian costumes... and I came in, wearing casual clothes and with my baby doll bundled to my chest in a miniature baby carrier my grandma had made specially for the occasion. Maybe it's something about me being the oldest of so many siblings. Maybe it's the fact that my own mother is such an amazing role model. But that's what I truly want, and it's what I have wanted for so many years, and I genuinely think it's what God's been preparing me for my whole life.

But everywhere I go, everyone I've turned to, all I seem to be met with is "You'd make such a good Sister!" or, "So, when are you entering the convent?" or, "Have you ever thought of entering [x] religious order?" with the exception of my own family. And it's led to a lot of stressing over my own vocation, because I'm a very naturally scrupulous person, and so ever since I was, like, eleven years old I've worked myself into the mentality of "I so want to get married to an amazing, wonderful man and have amazing, wonderful children. But what if that's not what God wants for me? I mean, we are called to sacrifice, aren't we? And I'm sure that if I spent enough time in the cloister I could learn to love it. But it's really not what I want. But does what I want matter? Maybe I'm just being selfish. Maybe this is my big test, and I need to give up my own selfish desire for a husband and a family. I'm so afraid that I'm not doing God's will." And so on and so forth.

And it doesn't help that... I've never once been pursued romantically. This is both a blessing and a curse. I get it, I'm young, I've got years to go before I get married, and in today's dating world over half of the hypothetical boys who would ask me out I'd have to politely turn down for various reasons. But it just kind of adds to that whole feeling of me being untouchable, too good and holy and pure for any prospective suitor to soil by attempting to win my favor, and unfortunately... it's kind of gotten to the point where I feel unlovable. Like no one will ever want me like that, like maybe I have no choice but to head behind the grille.

And to make matters worse, there is a boy. He's kind, he's funny, he's courteous and chivalrous and handsome and, most importantly, devout. On fire for his faith. And he shares so many interests with me- we met over the summer and quite literally bonded over our shared love of Zelda and Star Wars. He's an artist, like myself (he draws and writes and plays music) and appreciates the value of beauty in the same way I do. He's also one of my only not-online friends I feel completely and totally secure talking about my faith with, which is the most important thing because in my other friendships I almost always feel spiritually stifled in some way. I am not kidding when I say that he is exactly the man I always prayed for. And, after a very long time of not having a crush, I fell fast and hard. And I can picture us together, I can see us being married and raising children and helping our family get to Heaven together. I can see us growing old together, and having our fights and squabbles but always, through God's grace, coming back more in love than ever. He is one of my best friends and we talk almost every day, and I know that a relationship with him would lead me truly closer to God.

The problem is: he lives pretty far away. We're in the same state, but it's still a three-hour drive. And I have no idea if he feels the same way, because I'd rather have a long-distance friendship that is Godly and holy and whole and lasts for years even if it never leads to anything more, than a long-distance relationship that fizzles out within months and strains the friendship we did once have. To make matters worse, we've talked about vocations and marriage and stuff before (we actually met at summer camp, and our little friend group talked about this kind of thing often), and it turns out that he experiences that phenomenon that seems to be found most heavily concentrated in teenage Catholic populations where there's this amazing incredible Godly young man that every Catholic girl who knows him ends up falling head over heels for. Now, he doesn't play into that (did I mention he's amazing and incredible and Godly), but... there are so many other girls that he could choose, and none of them live three hours away.

I don't know. I just needed to vent, I guess.

TL;DR: I am tired of marriage being seen as lesser than or sub-optimal to religious life, I am tired of always feeling like I need to enter a convent in order to please the Lord, I am tired of being constantly on the verge of a spiritual breakdown over trying to discern my vocation at the tender age of [redacted], and I am tired of feeling like no one will ever want me, except maybe the first guy I've ever been able to actually envision a life with but who lives three hours away and has plenty of admirers besides me.

[shannendoherty-fans]

September 1991 - Shannen Doherty, Luke Perry, Jaqson Priestley and all the "Beverly Hills, 90210" gang at the US magazine.

THE FALL ENTERTAINMENT PREVIEW

For everything, there is an entertainment season. You may want to take it all in or turn, turn, turn it all off, but one thing's for sure, you can't avoid it. So kick back, look at what's in store and take your pick. • The networks' experimental phase seems to be over (for now). Sitcoms are flourishing, with very few hour-long dramas on the schedule. Pfeiffer, Pacino and Moore are all going to be visiting a theater near you. Mariah Carey and Barbra Streisand will try to fill the void left by the lack of the long-awaited Bruce Springsteen album. But what makes entertainment so exciting are the inevitable surprises. After all, who would have picked a rotund guy named Schwarzkopf to be the star of last year's fall season? Only in America.

FAST TIMES AT TEEN ANGST HIGH

Take a handful of beautiful babes and Doherty. After he demands refreshments, extra bedding and hunks, toss in some smart story lines, add a liberal dose of adolescent hor- mones, give it time to simmer and what have you got? TV's coolest prime-time hit: 'Beverly Hills, 90210'.

By Karen Schoemer, Photographs by Timothy White.

BARE-CHESTED AND GRINNING, LUKE PERRY stands on the Beverly Hills, 90210 soundstage, prepping for a scene. Two women from the crew hover over him: One lightly dabs his face with a makeup sponge, and the other fastidiously wraps his lean torso in a cotton bandage to signify the broken ribs Perry's character, Dylan McKay, has sustained in a surfing accident. Perry holds his arms above his head and chats merrily about his "studly" physique and "the large shadows cast by my chest," before he dons a white T-shirt through which the bandages poke sympathetically. Preparations complete, he takes a quick drag or two from a Marlboro Light and saunters onto the set. Time to go to work. Time for a make-out scene.

Perry lies down on a couch in the Walsh family living room. With his arm draped luxuriously over the sofa's back and his head cushioned by piles of pillows, he suggests nothing so much as a Roman aristocrat waiting for his grapes to be peeled. In fact, this particular episode has the recuperating Dylan being waited on hand and foot by ex-girlfriend Brenda Walsh, played by Shannen reading material, Brenda stands before him and says with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Anything else?" "Just one more thing," whispers Dylan seductively. "You." Brenda falls on top of him, and the two share a passionate reconciliatory smooch.

"We're trying to keep the set clear," says the assistant director with attempted delicacy. The remark would probably be lost on Perry, who isn't the least bit shy about his vocational duties. "It beats other jobs I've had," Perry says later. "Kissing girls for a living is not a bad way to go.'

Perry has every reason to be enjoying life right now: Beverly Hills, 90210, airing Thursday nights on Fox, is one of the hottest shows on television, and its cast - especially Perry, Doherty, and Jason Priestley, who plays the show's leading man, Brandon Walsh have become some of the most talked-about young actors in Hollywood. Set in a ritzy Beverly Hills high school, 90210 looks at such teen issues as pregnancy, drunk driving, peer pressure and AIDS through the eyes of the Walsh kids, two transplanted Minnesotans. Like a pubescent thirtysomething, 90210 truly excels at melodrama; a single hour of the show packs enough teen angst to fill a year's worth of scrawled diary entries.

Also like thirtysomething, 90210 works on a deceptively simple formula: quality writers, quality directors, and a creative team that balances youthful enthusiasm with years of TV experience. The husband-and-wife team of Steve Wasserman and Jessica Klein, the series' story editors, have written for CBS's smart smash, Northern Exposure. Writer and executive producer Charles Rosin produced several made-for-TV movies and was the supervising producer at Northern Exposure last season. Episode directors have included movie folk like Tim Hunter (The River's Edge) and such cuttingedge TV directors as Charles Braverman (The Brotherhood of Justice). Rounding out the team are 30-year-old creator/ writer/supervising producer Darren Star, a newcomer whose 90210 pilot was the first he'd ever written, and TV production legend Aaron Spelling (his long career includes megahits like Dynasty, The Love Boat, The Mod Squad and Charlie's Angels) whose company produces the show.

Not exactly known for his small-screen depictions of teenagers, Spelling came to the show after Star had sold his pilot to Fox. "Fox called and said, 'Would you like to do a high school show?' and I said, 'Not particularly," Spelling recalls. "I said that I don't know how to do Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Parker Lewis Can't Lose. They said, 'No, no, we'd like to do a show in Beverly Hills, with strangers from a foreign land like Minnesota coming to it.' I said, 'That's intriguing.' I really got excited." (Later, Spelling's 18-year-old daughter, Tori, auditioned behind her father's back and was cast in a supporting role.)

DESPITE THE STRONG CREATIVE TEAM, Fox obviously didn't know what it had: 90210 debuted in the fall of 1990 with no fanfare, no hype, no colossal marketing schemes and no ratings. Although many of the cast members had worked in television before ─ Priestley in the sitcom Sister Kate, Doherty in the series Our House, Perry in the daytime soap Loving ─ certainly none had much name recognition with the viewing public. By December, the show was slogging along in the bowels of the ratings, while its cast and crew grew increasingly frustrated. "We were so marginal for so long," says Charles Rosin. "We went into the [Fox] network and said, 'Listen, unless you start promoting us, no one's going to know we're here.'

Fox agreed and went into promotional overdrive, with immediate results: The ratings began to rise once teen America got a look at Priestley and his young cohorts. (Incidentally, most of the cast won't reveal their real ages ─ they are rumored to be well into their 20s ─ for fear that it will ruin the illusion of them as high school students.) By the end of February, the show was in the Number Two position behind Cheers for its time slot; by April, Priestley was being hailed as the new teen heartthrob; and by the season's end in May, Perry was being hailed as the newer teen heartthrob, and 90210 was approaching the Nielsen Top 40.

  Then Fox unveiled a revolutionary strategy: Instead of the normal three-month hiatus, 90210 would go back to work and prepare seven new episodes to air during the summer, in addition to the standard twenty-three episodes for the regular season. "Thirty shows!" says Spelling. "It's a gamble, but I'll tell you, they've got guts.' (And smarts: The first summer episode rocketed the series into the Top 20.) Like Fox's previous youth smash, 21 Jump Street, 90210's success could be attributed to its gorgeous cast, hot topics and sympathetic characters. Then again, the most important ingredient may be the series' uncondescending view of the problems of preadulthood. As Darren Star notes, "Teenagers take themselves very seriously and really see their lives in terms of high dramatics, and I think the show represents that very well." Jessica Klein agrees: "The show is very honest, and the characters don't always do the right thing, which is, I think, terrific."

Around the set, happiness make that rampant, untethered giddiness ─ is the primary mode for most of the cast and crew. Call it climbing ratings, but the atmosphere on 90210 is phenomenally joyous. The actors joke and giggle with one another between takes; everybody walks around hugging and kissing each other; and director Braverman never once raises his voice. With the actors' spirits still high at ten o'clock on a Friday night, Braverman quips, "All right, guys, tense up!" as if all this relaxed fun is starting to get to him.

Mixed with the cast members' obvious enthusiasm, however, is a feeling of nervous edginess, an anxiety that the show's massive popularity might interfere with a formula that has worked up until now. "We're at a time that could really make or break the show," says Gabrielle Carteris, who plays school newspaper editor Andrea Zuckerman. "I think everybody thinks that we've made it, because we're in our second season and there's so much response. And it's exciting and it's scary because it's new for all of us." "When you have a lot of hype around a show, it puts a lot of pressure on," adds James Eckhouse. "I just hope this show will be allowed to have its own life." Not everyone on the show has such a philosophical outlook. After the first four weeks of shooting, during which the press was present nearly every day, Priestley demanded that the set be cleared while he was working and refused to do any more interviews with other cast members present. Some actors with secondary roles were squabbling over receiving inadequate press coverage. By mid-June, Jennie Garth, who plays Kelly Taylor, was showing signs of stress and, after almost collapsing on the set, was taken to the hospital (and quickly released).

In other words, the cast is being forced to deal with the consequences of their own popularity. And while most of the pressures are external, there does seem to be one internal source of tension on the set.

SHANNEN DOHERTY STANDS AT THE front of a classroom, looking anxious. She wears one of her trademark Brenda Walsh outfits: chocolate-colored stretch top, tan chinos, black boots. Her brown hair lies perfectly across her back as if it were carved out of stone; her round, graceful features look brittle and pinched.

Even though it's a hot June afternoon, school's in session for the cast of 90210, and actors, crew and extras are crowded into an airless room in an abandoned hospital building in Encino. The plot line has several of the characters ─ Brenda (Doherty), Andrea (Carteris), Donna (Tori Spelling) and freshman David Silver (Brian Austin Green) enrolled in a summer drama class, and today's topic is Shakespeare. Sixteenth-century England, it would seem, is a long way from twentieth-century prime time.

"I f---ed up, Chuck," says Doherty slowly, tragically, to Braverman.

She has just fumbled her lines for the fifth time. She walks over to the script supervisor, studies the speech and returns to her mark. She runs through the speech again and sits down.

"Cut," says Braverman, putting his hand to his forehead. This time, Doherty has left off the final line of her speech. "Let's try it again."

But the actress remains seated, her head down. Carteris and Tori Spelling quickly cluster around, as if trying to console her. Abruptly, Doherty gets up and runs out of the room, crying. There is a long, dead silence. Spelling gives a nonplussed shrug. Around the 90210 set, Doherty ─ an acting veteran who's appeared in everything from Little House on the Prairie to the cult teen movie Heathers ─ is usually described as “difficult.” Her mood swings are becoming the stuff of set legend; by the end of this particular afternoon, after returning to the set and completing her scene, she is gamboling through the classroom like a child on her birthday, giggling with costar Spelling, hugging Braverman and sitting in his lap. Between scenes on other days, she shuts the door of her dressing room and blares death-rock at ear-searing volume. Even Aaron Spelling admits, "She does some strange things.'

Braverman, who is jokingly referred to as "Shannen's director," tends to indulge her: He gently coaxes and has huddled one-on-one discussions with the actress. "Shannen and I have become closer and closer on each show," he says. "She's a very strong-willed woman. She used to disagree with me more when I would make a suggestion. Now she listens to me and, more often than not, she'll take it. One of the things I've done with Shannen is try to soften her character and make her more vulnerable. I think it's because I'm really crazy about her, and I don't want her to be the bad girl of 90210."

Doherty pulls up at the studio the following day in great spirits. She climbs out of her black BMW holding a shopping bag. "My house was so cold this morning I live in Malibu," she later explains, flashing a friendly smile. "I bought clothes so I could bundle up."

She steps lightly into the hair and makeup trailer to prepare for that day's scenes. "It was the Shakespeare," she says confidently when asked about the preceding day's difficulties. "I always know my lines, I never ─ I was in front of a crowd performing something I wasn't very familiar with. I've read Shakespeare, but I've never actually performed it before. So it's all very new to me. I got hot in there and I just got very nervous and then I couldn't get it straight. Also, when I screw up I get really mad at myself. So it was like a whole emotional breakdown that happened."

Doherty's makeup girl begins massaging her face with an electronic appliance that makes a sound like a bug zapper. "It takes out all the bacteria that's in your skin," Doherty explains. "Anyway, Chuck is very understanding. When I did start having this breakdown, he didn't really pressure me and was just like, 'Take your time, go slow, don't worry about it.' She moves down to the hair chair, reflecting on the show's growing success. "I just hope that the popularity doesn't change us in any way. Because we all want to be popular, and we all want the show to really take off, because it is a really good show. Give us a couple of years and let us establish our audience, and I think we will easily be in the Top 20. So it's good; it's just you can't let it affect you. In some ways it does change, the popularity does change it, but you can't all of a sudden think you can go out and do anything you want because you're a little bit famous."

The hair stylist holds up a lock of Doherty's eyebrow-length bangs and asks if she can trim them. "No," says Doherty flatly. She scrutinizes her face in the mirror. "I'm flying out to be in a celebrity softball tournament this weekend. A whole bunch of guys ─ a whole bunch of athletes ─ are going to be there."

LUKE PERRY IS CRYING. HE LIES curled up and trembling on a couch in the beach cabana set, located in a dif- ferent wing of the vacant hospital build- ing. A single candle, placed next to an old- fashioned photo cube, flickers light onto his face; around him the crew is frozen motionless, and the room's thick, heavy silence is broken only by Perry's barely audible sobs. The scene being filmed has Dylan returning to the bungalow where he used to spend summers with his family as a child; seeing the place much as he remembered it, he's overcome by difficult memories, and as the camera creeps clos- er to Perry's face, his performance becomes more vulnerable. All his earlier bravado has vanished. "Cut," whispers Braverman, as if reluctant to break the mood. "One more time."

Priestley, on set waiting to shoot the fol- lowing scene, decides to crack a joke. "Luke, can you get this right?" he calls out. "I don't want to be here all day."

Perry walks towards him, wiping his eyes. "You're being so mysterious," teas- es Priestley, affecting a lisp. "It's all so covert and dark."

Obviously in no mood for antics, Perry manages to respond, "Gotta get sensitive when the camera gets in there."

Priestley seems to take nothing seri- ously except the exact moment of execu- tion; when he's on the set, he yuks it up, yet as soon as the camera rolls he's com- pletely focused and seems to get impa- tient if he can't nail his scenes in two or three takes. “With Jason it's very easy and cool almost all the time," says Braverman.

"Jason's been our quarterback, keeping everybody on an even keel," raves Aaron Spelling, who also offers an opinion on his star's popularity. "I think Jason is the date that every girl would like to have. He's very attractive, he's sensitive, and he seems safe. That's why we brought in Luke Perry, because we thought we need- ed a character who was a little more off- center, who has a little James Dean."

The ploy has worked, perhaps too well: In the second season, Dylan seems to be overshadowing Brandon, the show's Richie Cunningham-style nice guy and all-around do-gooder, as the character with the most interesting emotional situ- ations. (Even Priestley seems to recognize certain limitations in the role: "Brandon," he says with something close to a sneer. "What is there to say about Brandon?")

Perry's fan mail is now coming in at a rate of some 500 letters a week, and he's only recently begun to grapple with the reality of his growing popularity. Earlier in the summer, a low-key promotional appearance in a Seattle area mall turned into a riot when some 5,000 screaming fans showed up instead of the expected turnout of a couple hundred. (Perry had to be hustled out in a laundry hamper.)

After he finishes his scene, Perry walks outside into the parking lot and sits down for a cigarette. "This particular scene was about a kid who was neglected by his father," he says. "[In real life] my rela- tionship with my father was very strained, and that kind of gives me a lot to draw on. You can never escape your past as an actor, because you always have to keep churning it up. I find that real dangerous."

Perry takes a look around the lot. "I used to make parking lots," he says suddenly, as if the irony of his situation has just hit him. "We'd pour the asphalt, paint the lines, make the curb, paint the stencils. The only thing I know how to do besides act is phys- ical labor. I was a paver, I was a cook, I drove people around in their Mercedes, I worked in a video store, I sold shoes, I worked in a hotel, made a lot of beds myself." He takes a drag and shakes his head. "When I think of the alternatives... my alternatives are not pleasant."

Priestley emerges from the building and invites himself into the conversation. "We get along because we come from the same school," he says loudly, grabbing Perry's cigarette.

"We're very similar," agrees Perry with an abrupt change of mood. "Know what you're doing, don't let anyone tell you anything different, have fun, and when the time comes, do your job ─”

"The work is very serious, and other than that─”

"Nothing is!" finishes Perry, and the pair lapse into an extended bout of male bond- ing and locker-room humor, all the pres- sures, demands and realities of their fast careers once again banished from their young skulls, at least temporarily.