Violets from Sappho

It occurred to me that I'd never actually drawn these two together, so I decided fixing that would be a good way to end Pride Month.

This is a spot from an italian estate agency (we are governed by the right-wing party)

The woman says "Ridiculous..."

Louisa Jacobson Was Born to Do This

“It's like a big group of theater kids,” the actress says of her Gilded Age costars.

By Rose Dommu - Them, April 10, 2026; photography by Mayan Toledano

Hair freshly bleached, clad in a black leather jacket, Louisa Jacobson could be any stylish woman in New York City. She’s not, though. Soon Jacobson will be back on set to start shooting the fourth season of The Gilded Age, HBO’s period drama chronicling the lives of the upper class in the late 1800s.

I’ll tell anyone who asks (or doesn’t) that it’s the best show on TV, which is likely why I’ve been asked to interview Jacobson. The actor plays Marian Brook, the quintessential ingénue: blonde, plucky, and naive with a heart of gold. Marian was Jacobson’s breakout role, and since the show’s premiere, she has also appeared in Celine Song’s Materialists and Off Broadway in last year’s Trophy Boys.

Jacobson passes the time like any queer woman in New York, watching movies with her friends (most recently Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?) and spending late nights at Basement — although this particular night she’ll be keeping it low-key at a friend’s birthday party. For someone who “grew up under a lot of scrutiny,” it’s the ideal way to decompress before going back in front of the cameras.

Louisa wears a suit by Balenciaga.

Jacobson fell in love with acting as a child, not just because she grew up in a creative house where art was “in the air that [she] breathed,” but because of its transformative power over both herself and the people around her. As a 10-year-old at summer camp, Jacobson was tasked with writing and performing her own “harrowing monologue” about a woman with anterograde amnesia. She discovered performing was a “transcendent experience” that she wanted to replicate again and again.

“At 10, I don't know if I understood that I was processing so many emotions, but it was very powerful for me,” she recalls, “and also I had the rapt attention of all the adults in the room.” The space between those opposing forces — the internal process of discovering a character and the external validation of an audience — is where many actors, Jacobson says, can question their commitment to the craft.

Jacobson’s life has left her uniquely qualified to separate the craft of acting from the trappings of fame. Her mother, Meryl Streep, might be our greatest living actor, and growing up around that level of celebrity gave Jacobson a great deal of perspective about the industry. She was born in Los Angeles, but the family quickly moved to the Berkshires and lived there until Jacobson was nine. “They wanted to do something different” with Jacobson and her three siblings. “I attribute some of my, what I consider my groundedness, to that,” she says.

Louisa wears briefs by Willy Chavarria.

On a rainy Friday in March, I’m in a borough I usually try to avoid (sorry, Queens). But I’m here for a very good reason: I’ve been invited to the set of The Gilded Age, which has started production on season four, to shadow Jacobson and generally fangirl to my heart’s content.

The actor arrives shortly after I do, and she’s still coming down from yesterday’s shoot, which included a pivotal scene for Marian that sets up her character’s journey for the season. “No spoilers,” Jacobson insists several times, making sure everyone from the hair and makeup team to her dresser keeps their lips sealed on upcoming plot points. She says it's because she knows how much I love the show and doesn’t want to ruin it for me (frankly, impossible), but I’m touched by her investment in keeping the viewing experience pure.

In Jacobson’s dressing room, she and I… Well, there’s no better way to describe it: We queen out. She shows me a vintage book aimed at preparing women for marriage, which someone gave her as a gift, and we take turns reading each other passages nearly a century old about “female pleasure” while giggling helplessly. At one point we decide to search lesbian Gilded Age fanfic and find a steamy story called “A Night for Scandal,” in which Marian and Bertha Russell, Carrie Coon’s imposing new-money matriarch, hook up after a masked ball. As I send her the link so she can read it later, I am distracted when Christine Baranski walks past the open greenroom door in full costume, reciting her lines. I ask Jacobson if she ever gets used to that. She laughs and says no.

Louisa wears a top by Issey Miyake and briefs by Araks.

Working with Broadway veterans like Baranski, Cynthia Nixon, Kelli O’Hara, and Audra McDonald has its perks. “Everyone will burst out in song,” Jacobson says. “Cynthia and Christine are often talking about theater productions that they've seen in the last two, three decades. You get a wealth of knowledge of the history of theater when you're around all these people all day. It's amazing. And there's a respect for hard work and taking the material very seriously. Everyone's a theater kid. It's like a big group of theater kids.”

Of her character, Jacobson says, “She wants to be doing more than what the world has been offering her or society has been offering her. As a 2026 queer woman, I forget how radical that is. I forget how radical the person Marian is, and I have to keep reminding myself of that. Like, it was very rare for women to be working.” At the time the series takes place, around 13% of women worked for a living — a figure known only because that was when women’s work began to be recorded in the national census in the wake of the Civil War.

And women like Marian were the lucky few whose stories were even considered. When we start talking about Jacobson’s own queerness (she came out on Instagram in 2024), she references Hugh Ryan’s When Brooklyn Was Queer, a nonfiction book that explores the history of LGBTQ+ lives in the borough. Digging into those often overlooked lives makes Jacobson incredibly emotional.

“I've cried so many times today,” she says with a laugh, before launching into a story about a young female artist in the (actual) Gilded Age who fell in love with another woman while studying art at Cooper Union. When Jacobson starts to tear up, I wonder, should I give her a reassuring pat on the hand?

Louisa wears briefs by Jane Wade, and wings by Captcha Lab and Lou Jelenski.

Louisa wears a bra by Jane Wade, boxers by Willy Chavarria, trousers by Captcha Lab, and shoes by Dior.

“I get very emotional because it's such a shame that so many of these histories are not written about. They're just completely left out,” Jacobson explains. “So many people are struggling precisely because they haven't seen themselves. I don't know what's gonna happen in my acting career, but all I want in my life [is to] look back and feel like I contributed to helping bring this out of the woodwork, helping continue this history.”

Jacobson’s character on The Gilded Age may not be queer, but Marian is still a rebel at a time when women of a certain class had an extremely narrow, prescribed path to follow. “My feelings about Marian ebb and flow constantly, if I'm being honest, and the thing that I love the most about [it] is, I'm constantly making new discoveries. I actually think that's what's so exciting,” says Jacobson. “With every new season I'm like, ‘How am I going to make this come alive? How am I going to make this speak to a modern audience? How am I going to make this? How am I going to make her? What is she gonna be like now?’”

Louisa wears a dress by Blumarine.

Back on the Gilded set, I sit in front of a monitor watching Jacobson shoot a scene with Baranski and Nixon in the van Rhijn house. On the screen I keep an eagle eye on Jacobson in the moments before the director yells “action,” awestruck by her transformation from the woman I was laughing with only an hour ago. Her face is now Marian’s face, porcelain and perfect..

Louisa wears a dress by Blumarine and holds a crinoline by Nicola Boyer.

In the makeup trailer she joked that the moment she truly becomes Marian is when the blush goes on, but she wasn’t exactly being honest; she became Marian as we walked to set, as she gave me a reassuring squeeze and disappeared backstage with headphones on. Somewhere between now and then her posture has straightened, her eyes have gone glassy and unguarded. After a few takes, Jacobson noticeably leans in a little harder, and I’m stunned by the performance.

“Sometimes I lose faith in myself,” Jacobson tells me at one point. “So there's always continuous moments I feel that remind me that I am up for it, that I do have a talent that is worth sharing.” Watching Jacobson hold her own alongside two of our greatest working actors feels like living in one of those moments. I don’t even know if the scene will make it into the final cut of the episode, but I feel lucky to have witnessed it.

Louisa wears a top by Collina Strada and briefs by Willy Chavarria.

Editorial Credits

Photographer: Mayan Toledano Stylist: Jessette Production Designer: Linden Elstran Hair: Blake Erik Make-up: Tamah Eisenstein Assistant Stylist: Charlotte Denner Assistant Stylist: Lydia Burns Assistant Photographer: Ashley Markle Assistant Production Designer: Harold Zjip Assistant Production Designer: Yvonne Edwardson Assistant Production Designer: Seamus Creighton Producer: Seana Bruff Creative Director: Ludwig Hurtado

🫠

Artwork by @kaaatikoart (IG)

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I don't want you like a best friend

can we? 🥺

Gilbert Baker added a 9th stripe shortly before his death, with the new stripe representing diversity. He added this stripe in reaction to the 2016 US election. It’s unfortunately not as well known as the 8 and 6 striped versions.

Here’s an image of him sewing together the 9 striped rainbow flag.

Pamela Rabe | favourite caps | 2 of ?

OHHHH SHIIII *cracks knuckles*

Let’s go - this is imagined as reader works at Wentworth and has a secret relationship with the governor 😛 I imagine that once you got to know each other she would have pet names like darling for you a name that made you feel like hers.

Afternoon Delight

***not my gifs***

You cross paths with the Governor in the hallway, and as always, your breath falters.

Her long, purposeful strides command the corridor. The uniform fits her like it was stitched onto her skin—tailored lines, polished boots, the crowns on her shoulders catching the light.

She stops directly in front of you.

The sudden halt makes your pulse spike. She looms, deliberate and controlled, and it never fails to make you weak—to make your thoughts slip somewhere filthy and inappropriate for prison walls.

“Governor,” you chirp politely, tilting your chin up to meet her cool gaze.

Her hand brushes your arm. The touch is deceptively soft.

“Care to join me for lunch, Miss YLN?”

There’s the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth. Most people would miss it, but you’ve learned her micro-expressions. You’ve studied them.

“It would be my pleasure, Governor.”

Her palm settles at the small of your back, guiding—never asking. She ushers you into her office and closes the door with a solid click. The sound seals your fate.

You’re trapped between the cold wood and her warm body in seconds.

This is your favourite part. The duality of her. Ruthless, composed leader in public… but here, behind closed doors, she allows something else to surface. Something darker. Something hungry.

Her hands waste no time.

They roam over your breasts, firm and possessive, before sliding down to squeeze your ass. You rise onto your toes, desperate to reach her mouth, craving the pressure of her lips.

She laughs softly—husky, amused at your impatience—and tuts before finally leaning down to claim you.

Her kisses are never gentle. They’re commanding, overwhelming, stealing the air from your lungs. Paired with the way her hands move over you, you melt instantly.

She pulls back just enough for you to breathe. Your hands cling to her waist, fingers seeking any exposed warmth beneath the uniform.

Her lips hover over yours again, breath hot against your skin.

“Are you hungry, darling?”

Her knee presses between your thighs as she asks it, nudging upward with intent. You grind down instinctively, a soft moan escaping before you can stop it.

“Starving.”

She smirks.

“So predictable.”

She allows you a few seconds—lets you roll your hips against her strong thigh, lets you chase friction—before withdrawing completely. Her eyebrow lifts in silent challenge, daring you to protest.

You don’t.

Instead, you watch her.

She strides to her desk, and you can’t help but stare at the tight line of her trousers over her backside. She sits with effortless control and pats her lap.

You laugh under your breath. Your serious, formidable Governor summoning you like a spoiled pet.

You sway your hips deliberately as you approach, giving her something to look at. Her posture shifts. Her fingers move to her belt.

You know exactly what she wants.

Without being told, you drop to your knees and crawl closer.

A dark chuckle vibrates in her chest as she unzips her trousers, lifting slightly to push them down to her knees. Black stockings hug her thighs, garters framing pale skin. The sight alone makes your head spin.

“Take them off.”

The playfulness disappears from her tone. It’s command now. Heat floods between your legs.

You obey.

Carefully, reverently, you slide her trousers down, palms smoothing over nylon-clad thighs. She looks down at you, composed and regal, even like this. You could stay here forever on your knees, beneath her.

One leg, then the other. You slip the trousers over her heels, leaving the stockings and shoes in place. The fantasy demands it.

Her fingers hook under your chin and tilt your face up.

“Crawl under the desk.”

The authority in her voice hits you like a physical force.

You move instantly, crawling beneath the heavy wood until you’re hidden from view. She pushes her chair in and spreads her legs, tapping her shoe impatiently against the floor.

Your mouth waters.

Trapped between her nylon-clad thighs, heels bracketing you on either side, you feel dizzy with want.

Above you, she shuffles papers. The performance is deliberate as though she’s forgotten you’re there. A challenge. You accept it.

She clears her throat.

“I thought you were starving, darling. Eat up.”

The sarcasm drips from her voice.

You shift onto your knees and press closer, hands trailing up the backs of her calves. You place slow, open-mouthed kisses over the stockings, taking your time. She’s teased you for hours before ,edged you until you were trembling. This is your revenge.

The lace on her underwear is damp, glistening. You can smell her arousal. It destroys any lingering thought of restraint.

You hook your arms under her thighs and push the soaked fabric aside.

The first taste is always your favourite.

Soft. Wet. Perfect.

Her hips jerk sharply at the contact. You press your face closer, moaning against her as you drag your tongue slowly up the length of her cunt before settling on her clit, kissing it with deliberate softness.

Her hand shoots beneath the desk and fists in your hair.

Impatient.

“Behave,” she growls.

“Mmmhmm,” you murmur against her, letting the vibration ripple through her.

Her grip tightens, using your hair as leverage as her thighs clamp around your head.

Your tongue moves with purpose now—long strokes, circling, sucking. You moan into her deliberately, intoxicated by the power shift. Down here, between her legs, you’re the one controlling the rhythm—even if she refuses to admit it.

You tug her hips forward. She slides further down the chair with a sharp yelp.

A firm pull on your hair punishes you instantly.

“Careful, darling. Or you’ll pay tenfold when it’s my turn between your thighs.”

The promise makes you ache.

You dive back in, pushing your tongue deeper, wanting every drop she gives you. You alternate between broad strokes and focused pressure on her clit, sucking hard until her composure begins to fracture.

Her hips tremble.

Her legs tighten.

“Fuck… yes… good girl.”

The praise sends you feral. You lap at her relentlessly as her breathing turns ragged. Her thighs squeeze so tight you can barely breathe.

With one final, desperate buck of her hips—

“Ohhh, fuck!”

She comes hard onto your tongue, grinding down as she rides out the orgasm. You hold your tongue steady, letting her use you exactly how she pleases.

“My… hungry girl.”

Her hand slowly loosens in your hair as she pushes the chair back.

You crawl out from beneath the desk, smiling up at her. Your face glistens with her slick. You lick your lips slowly, never breaking eye contact.

Her cheeks are flushed, a fine sheen of sweat on her skin. Her thighs shine with spit and release.

She stands and pulls her trousers back up.

You whimper quietly at the loss of the view.

Towering over you once more, she regains her composure piece by piece. The pride in her gaze makes your core clench.

Your eyes drop to her hands as she fastens her belt, fingers sliding deliberately over thick leather.

She knows exactly what that does to you.

You remember the sting of it against your ass, the deep purple marks it left. The creak as it tightened around your throat.

She tuts softly.

“I know what you’re thinking, darling. But you’ll be waiting a long time to remember what this feels like after your little display of defiance.”

She curls her finger in a silent command.

You rise, still looking up at her through innocent lashes.

Your hands drift toward her belt again, fingers brushing the buckle. You’re panting now, silently begging.

She places her strong hands over yours, stopping you easily.

A pathetic whine slips from your lips as you try once more to tug at the leather.

“Don’t pout,” she murmurs coolly. “You’ve had your fill.”

Her thumb tilts your chin up.

“Lunchtime is over.”