masterlist
A wave of nausea hit you, sending you reeling back from your papers. You grasped your stomach, willing the pain to go away. There was a deadline set for this work and of course you being you had to wait last minute to finish.
You glimpsed at the time, 1:03am, the paper was due at 6:00am and you were hoping to get some sleep before then.
A knock sounded before the door opened, "Hey love, you okay?"
It was your husband, John. You had forgotten he came back from a mission two days ago. You've just been too busy with work.
"I'm alright."
"You sure?"
He raised an eyebrow at you. Maybe it was the way you were hunched over or the papers scrawled all over the office desk. Or the time...Time.
You had to finish this paper now. For both your mental and physical well-being, but none of it was making any sense.
The words started to jumble on the pages.
You didn't know when, but John came back with a plated sandwich.
"It's not much, but you haven't any yet."
You mumbled a thanks before going back to writing. Your lover watched over you, waiting for you to pick up and eat the sandwich he made.
"Gonna eat, love?"
"Yeah, yeah," you mumbled, too focused on thinking of what to write. So focused that you didn't realize when John started tapping his arm in impatience.
It was only when he stood right behind you with his hand on your wrist, pulling your arm away from what needed to be done.
"You need some sleep."
"But I have to finish this!"
He grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the desk and chair. You wouldn't fight him. You didn't have the strength to do so because you were too tired.
He laid both of you down, wrapping an arm around you.
"Goodnight, love."
"Goodnight," you laid awake with your eyes wide open. Your thoughts were too big for your head and it felt like you needed rest, but you couldn't.
"I didn't eat the sandwich you made me."
"Huh?" He was confused by your statement.
You repeated yourself, "I didn't eat the sandwich you made me."
You could imagine him closing his eyes again while he spoke, "You can eat it in the morning."
A moment passed before he sighed and pulled you closer into his arms. The married couple snuggled together for both warmth, love, and comfort. They understood one another and that was all that mattered between them.
Sometimes moments of comfort like this makes one want to dream.
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I just had to endure a whole scene where a male character, after being a perfectly nice person for the whole book, suddenly turns rude, condescending, and a bit sexist when he meets the female protagonist as a sign that he’s gonna be the love interest and I am BEGGING authors to stop fucking doing this. It isn’t charming, it isn’t funny, it isn’t clever, it’s just fucking exhausting having to endure the female protagonist being demeaned until he deigns to consider her a human being and that’s a sign that it’s True Love. Believe it or not you CAN write a romance that doesn’t require one or both of them to be terrible people.
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ladies of the conspiracy
porcia and tertulla! I have some thoughts about their appearances in the scraps of the historical conspiracy that are visible (since it's like. the nature of conspiracy, even one as widely known and studied as the one leading up to the assassination of caesar, means that there's a gap in visibility with the details etc) that I'll have to try and pin down later, but for now, I think we should give them a dagger too
Brutus, the Noble Conspirator, Kathryn Tempest
Junia too, the niece of Cato, wife of Caius Cassius and sister of Marcus Brutus, died this year, the sixty-fourth after the battle of Philippi. Her will was the theme of much popular criticism, for, with her vast wealth, after having honourably mentioned almost every nobleman by name, she passed over the emperor. Tiberius took the omission graciously and did not forbid a panegyric before the Rostra with the other customary funeral honours. The busts of twenty most illustrious families were borne in the procession, with the names of Manlius, Quinctius, and others of equal rank. But Cassius and Brutus outshone them all, from the very fact that their likenesses were not to be seen.
Tacitus, Annals III.76
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