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Saint-Just *holding Camille's hair back*: If you'd just let me cut—

Camille: NOO!

Because what's the point of those little wispy bangs if you're not gonna go for the full proto-mullet look?

Everyone's at the club

Saint-Just's a little more comfortable now that they're all married. They'll go to the Jacobins later.

The Convention is like, yes this is working. Who else can we pair up to heal factional rifts?

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Some things are probably better left unexplained

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Everyone's at the club

Saint-Just's a little more comfortable now that they're all married. They'll go to the Jacobins later.

The Convention is like, yes this is working. Who else can we pair up to heal factional rifts?

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Newlyweds

Saint-Just, Camille, and Lucile make things work. (a.k.a. We find new/old ways to work out our problems.)

I needed this for important historical reasons.

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Nooo! My nonsensical fanart is historically inaccurate! I wonder if he ever went. Maybe he was just busy that time.

From Saint-Just by Norman Hampson

Saint-Just In The Club

I don't think I can even slightly explain.

I just needed a place to stash this.

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Saint-Just In The Club

I don't think I can even slightly explain.

I just needed a place to stash this.

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Oh shit you're snooping on my frev fic folder 🫢

A king who doesn't really want to and isn't able to run the kingdom properly catches wind of a noble woman who wants to kill him to take over and he realizes she is extremely competent so he decides to propose to her to save everyone the hassle and they have a surprisingly healthy relationship.

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So is somebody going to write an Audrey pegs Hob fic or do I have to do it myself?

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Saint-Just In The Club

I don't think I can even slightly explain.

I just needed a place to stash this.

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"My spectacles are no good. I'd like you to buy me a pair like I had six months ago, not silver but steel, with two arms that attach to the head. Ask for number 15;: the merchant will know."

Sweetheart really thought he was going to be alive long enough to use new glasses 😭😭😭😭

18th century French spectacles modeled on this pair.

I needed this for personal reasons.

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People who don't read historical RPF will never know the joys and delights of reading through 3+ Wiki pages, 5 JSTOR articles and looking at at least 2 separate family tree diagrams to determine just how problematic their ship is

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And Summoned Now to Deal With Your Invincible Defeat

Camille Desmoulins/Maximilien Robespierre Rated: Explicit Ao3 link (the actual NSFW half is on Ao3)

"Stop!"

Maxime's voice rings with frustration — and Camille finds he enjoys the sound; that calm exterior so rarely breaks the way it has broken tonight! Sometimes Camille really does prefer the vicious, righteous anger of Hébert and his followers to his friend's serene severity. Now, he delights in its faltering. There's been so little to delight in tonight, and maybe that's why he finds a tiny spark of joy in it. He wants to devour, like a starving man, the emotion rippling under Maxime's words. 

The controlled facade is finally breaking.

"Stop!"

Camille does not stop.

It's late — nearly midnight — and surely deputy Robespierre should be heading back to the Committee of Public Safety to debate and sign decrees into the early hours. But as Camille strides through the night, rain soaking through his coat, boots slapping the muddy street, the pursuing steps continue. 

He ascends to a cold, empty apartment; Lucile must be at her mother's  — or Danton's. It doesn't matter; they are all free people. 

Still the steps hurry after him. 

The door clicks shut.

"You need to stop."

Camille halts beside his desk, strewn with the very writing that's gotten him into this mess. He turns on the spot — finding Maxime closer than he'd expected, his breaths heavy and desperate — and freezes exaggeratedly like a statue. "If you insist."

"Camille, you are a child!" Drops slide from Maxime's ruined hair, which had been as always carefully powdered and set. In his hasty pursuit, he must've forgotten his hat at the Jacobin Club. 

Camille keeps very still and does not answer. He has already been called a child several times tonight.

"You need to stop what you're doing." They're so close that Maxime's frustrated breaths touch Camille's lips. 

His own frustration breaks the statue act, and Camille steps back, knocking into his desk. "I'm not doing anything wrong!"

"It doesn't matter! You'll die."

"You'll protect me."

"I can't!"

Fear crawls over Camille's skin. His breath goes ragged. The frigid January rain finally seems to have soaked right through to his bones. He shivers, and a pained shadow crosses Maxime's eyes. But it's not the prospect of the guillotine that frightens Camille, nor his friend's blatant denial — no, not even that abandonment. What shatter's Camille's defiant, impish calm is the sheer helplessness in his best friend's voice. 

Maxime grips his upper arms as though worried Camille might faint. His voice is quiet, but no less frustrated. "Some are already calling for your head!"

"Well, that's p-progress. They used to only call for me to be caned."

"Camille—"

"I must be making more of an impression!"

"Be serious!"

"I am! My call for mercy is all seriousness."

Maxime makes an angry noise deep in his throat. He shakes his head. His hands drop from Camille's arms, and Camille wishes — unhelpfully — that he were actually fainting.

"How can you disagree?" Camille asks. "While I rally the people to a position of clemency, you are exhorting the Convention to true justice!"

"They don't listen to me! Or they listen and plot, like Collot—"

"I am listening, and people are listening to me! Le Vieux Cordelier has sold out��"

"That's the problem! Don't you understand how many want to see you punished?" Robespierre steps back and turns his head — the control is beginning to return, frustration mutating back into that serene severity. "And you would deserve it! You are stirring things up."

"Stirring things up? I'm not a counter revolutionary!"

Camille wishes suddenly, stupidly, that Maxime would just hit him. This sternness, this perfect, incorruptible control is unbearable! And why should it be directed at Camille? When the mechanisms outside these walls grind on, overshadowing both their efforts at peace and liberty! 

Camille steps closer. "You know what's in my heart."

"I know what's in your paper."

"My dear Robespierre—"

"I—"

"Maxime."

"I have defended you."

"I know."

Under the calm surface, Maxime's voice is shaking. But from rage fear or cold? It's impossible to tell. "What do you want, Camille?"

"I want what you want."

"I want you to stop putting yourself at risk! You'll be hurt."

"I can take it."

"I don't know… if I can."

"Try."

They stare at each other in the moonlit apartment, still so close that Camille can see something beneath the rage or fear or cold. Grief, perhaps. He feels it himself — so acute, it's like they've already lost each other. And it makes Camille wants to cling, grasp, touch — to be hit even — anything for just a second more of connection before they are broken apart forever.

They are so close. He can feel the other man's heat. But only that and breath cross the inches between them. Maxime's eyes flick to Camille's lips. Ah, yes, some things can reach through that calm, collected exterior! Though, Camille might be the only one in the Republic who knows that. If he took one step closer — crossed the abyss of breath and body heat between them — he'd feel the bulge in the Incorruptible's trousers, perhaps the one bit of the man that refuses to be controlled.

Camille takes half a step. He smiles a small, mischievous smile. "That's not the only thing you want."

"Don't tempt me." Maxime looks away.

Damn him.

Camille's own angry, frustrated noise choke him. "I won't stop! You'll have to make me."

"No."

"You'll have to—"

"I said don't tempt me!"

"You'll have to bind… bind my hands to stop me writing. A-and gag me to stop me speak—"

Maxime's lips crush his.

Camille's hair is being tugged into a tight fist. Maxime's other hand claws at his back. Camille's breath is gone — devoured in the heat, the sheer force of Maxime's lips.

The kiss breaks, and Camille gasps for air.

"I told you to stop," Maxime says.

"I'm not afraid."

"You are!"

Camille is, in fact, trembling — a fact he cannot possibly hide from Maxime's fingers, still clinging in his hair and at his back. He can only partially blame the cold rain. "Alright. I'm… I'm afraid.... continued on Ao3 

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me when i’m scrolling ao3 and i see truly outrageous freak shit getting kudos and comments, realizing that perverts are keeping the true spirit of fandom alive and well

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While I know the popular headcanon is that Hob is a cat person (because Meowpheus), I just think it'd be so much funnier if he just... wasn't.

This man was raised in medieval Europe. They believed cats had some connection to witchcraft and were super superstitious about cats being bad luck. I'm not saying Hob would outright hate cats, especially in the modern day where he should know better, but just slightly... cautious around them? Keeping his distance, flinching every time one comes too close, etc. And when he sees Dream in cat-form for the first time, all types of hilarity ensues.

Dream: Hob Gadling....

Hob: (Holding up a broom to keep the distance): Alright darling, if you could just stay right there—

Dream: This is human foolishness. I will approach you as I see fit!

Hob: Wait! I have a really important lecture tomorrow and I can't let things go wrong—

*Crashing noises*

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peak philosophy in ao3 tags

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just finished reading “A Well-Placed Gift” and i’m obsessed. ever since i found out about immortalsandflower i haven’t stopped thinking about them. hope more fics are written about those 3 with the upcoming season <3

thank you for writing that beautiful fic! i fell in love with it <333 hope u have an amazing day 🩷

Aw, I know! Me, too! I love these 3! Like, they're all somehow simultaneously quintessential exemplars of what they are (Dream is... dreams; Nuala is quite the faerie; Hob is the most human in the history of humans), yet also the oddities/exceptions/outliersof their kind. They absolutely belong together and are so fucked up individually/together it's almost painful.

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Ugggggghhhhhh.... Sorry, silent & upset Sandman fandom, I updated A Well-Placed Gift. Things are horrible & weird right now, I know, & I'm just writing. Well, for anyone who wants it... my fucked up Hob/Nuala/Dream story:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51788500/chapters/162736594

(Or from the beginning.)