#(<- fabre voice)

[theblackrook]

« Peut-on se cacher trop soigneusement quand on a attaqué Robespierre ? »

The author of L'Ami des Lois had condemned himself for some months to voluntary reclusion to avoid the prison his enemies had in store for him, when a person who took a keen interest in him asked me to find out from the people in power whom I might know, whether Laya's days were threatened, and whether it was necessary for him to do himself more harm by depriving himself of his freedom than his enemies perhaps wanted to do him. In fact, there was no warrant out for him. One evening, at the (Théâtre?) Italiens, I ran into d'Églantine, who, as I said, had been obliging during my imprisonment. I approached him, and after congratulating him on having made himself the patron of the gens de lettres in the eyes of the government committees, I mentioned a few of them who feared for their safety, including Desfaucherets and Laya. F — “Desfaucherets,” he told me, “I don't see why he should be worried. He doesn't like us, but he hasn't proved it publicly. We don't think about him. Don't let him make us think about him; don't let him show himself; we won't go looking for him. If he's in trouble, come and tell me; I'll do what I can to get him out of it.” A — “Good, but what about Laya?” F — “Oh, Laya's another matter. Laya—who wrote L'Ami des Lois! Don't you just love laws? Laya—who attacked Robespierre!” A — “So you like Robespierre?” F — “Robespierre!” ( He looked at me with the most expressive eyes. ) F — “Do you know what it is to attack Robespierre? Can one hide too carefully when one has attacked Robespierre?” A — “Is it a crime of lèse-majesté to attack Robespierre? Is Robespierre a king?” F — “Robespierre… is Robespierre.” ( He replied, raising the index finger of his gesticulating right hand. ) F — “Attack Robespierre!” ( He repeated in a voice that grew more serious as he repeated the name. ) I couldn't get another answer. I drew two conclusions from this, both of which, it seemed to me, were quite accurate: 1. That poor Laya was infallibly lost if discovered - I sent him word of this. 2. That Robespierre had become an object of concern and jealousy for his malicious* colleagues; and that, not yet daring to accuse him as a usurper of authority, they were taking pains to designate him as such by the deference they paid to him, by the importance they pretended to attach to his person. It was clear to me from then on that discord was in Agramant's camp, and that before long it would erupt. Indeed, a few months later, Danton's faction, of which Fabre was a member, climbed the scaffold, where, a few months after that, Robespierre was dragged in his turn. Fabre, in our conversation, was preluding the accusation of the tyrant.

Original : Pages 39/40/41, Souvenirs d'un sexagénaire - Antoine-Vincent Arnault - Google Books

* The original French is "Que Robespierre était devenu un objet d’inquiétude et de jalousie pour ses noirs collègues"; the adjective "noirs" (literally black) is not referring to race or physical appearance. Instead, it’s a figurative, moral, or emotional descriptor—a common usage in 18th- and 19th-century French prose. This figurative use of noir was often applied to conspirators, corrupt officials, or treacherous characters—people who operated in the political shadows.

My Thoughts ↴

Arnault approaches Fabre because he had become known as:

“the patron saint of people of letters to government committees.”

This role — a mediator between writers and the revolutionary government — places Fabre in an uncomfortable position: he is responsible for protecting intellectuals, while also navigating the dangerous politics of the committees. It makes him a kind of double agent: loyal to his fellow men of letters, but bound by political allegiance.

When Fabre discusses Desfaucherets, he evaluates the situation pragmatically and dismisses concerns over him:

“He doesn’t like us, but he hasn’t said so publicly… Let him stay quiet and he’ll be fine.”

He is more or less telling Arnault that as long as Desfaucherets doesn’t provoke or attract attention, he’ll be left alone. He’s describing not morality, but optics — what one can get away with, not what is right. Fabre even offers help, suggesting some goodwill or at the very least neutrality.

But Jean-Louis Laya is different — because he’s already crossed the line by writing L’Ami des lois, which was seen as a thinly veiled critique of mob rule, featuring a characterization of Robespierre. Fabre understands that this kind of act is unforgivable in the current political climate (around the time of the execution of Louis XVI). He offers no defense of Laya’s right to free expression — only a reality that Arnault has to interpret: Laya is doomed if they find him.

Fabre is not cruel — but he is concerned, above all, with his own survival. Fabre doesn’t even try to offer hope. He doesn’t bother pretending there’s room for debate. Laya is already lost.

Throughout the conversation with Arnault, Fabre carefully avoids directly criticizing Robespierre, even when prompted. Instead of giving a clear answer about whether Laya is in danger for attacking Robespierre, he simply repeats:

“Robespierre… is Robespierre.”

This phrase becomes the centerpiece of Fabre’s words — a tautology that substitutes clarity with Fabre’s way of describing Maximilien. It is not a definition, but a gesture. He doesn’t define him — because he can’t or dares not. Fabre cloaks his meaning in ambiguity very intentionally, not taking a stance is itself a stance. To name power is to challenge it. This repetition, especially with changes in tone and gesture (raising his index finger like signaling that one must not say more, lowering his voice), suggests that Fabre is afraid to articulate Robespierre’s power aloud.

In Fabre’s world, names carry weight — and Robespierre’s name has become heavier than most. To define Robespierre would be to judge him — and in doing so, one risks the judgment of Robespierre in return. So, he speaks in code to ensure himself some plausible deniability. That fear is visible in his evasiveness.

“You know what he is. I cannot say it, but you know. And if you don’t, you are a fool.”

And while Fabre never explicitly criticizes Robespierre, there’s a subtle edge to how he talks about him:

“Do you know what it means to attack Robespierre?”

The question is rhetorical. It implies: “You must be foolish or suicidal to do such a thing.” His tone becomes darker with each repetition of the name — and this intensity suggests more than fear. It suggests that Robespierre’s name, rightly or wrongly, had come to represent a limit — not just to political action, but to speech itself.

In any case, there is a cruel irony in the fact that this happens inside a theater, with Fabre—a playwright and political actor—choosing his words very carefully.

[raystranslationsfestival]

Dependable Older Brother.

Type: Skit. Character: Luke (First Skit). Characters Featured: Luke, Yuri.

Translation, recording, subbing by Shi. Proofread by Yewfelle.

[sistaofpeace1]

Happy birthday to Yuri Lowenthal, the one who brought Luke and Asch to life amazingly!

Here’s hoping he returns for a potential Abyss remaster/remake! 🥹🙏

[addoves]

wait, guy, you have to be joking! a shrimp fried this rice? do you really think im that gullible?

[mxdotpng]

i want to think abt my twinswap more but every time i try to the only mental image i get before laughing is asch chewing at the manor's walls with guy pulling at his coat & luke and sync telling each other to throw themselves out a window while van pulls them along on a leash. like disbehaving children.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

FIRST, SUGAR. 18+

pairing. raymond smith x fem!reader word count. 1932 summary. ray's mindless touches on your thigh while you read begin to catch up with you, though he's too busy working to realise. so he offers you a promise, "if you can give me twenty minutes. I'll fuck you for twice as long." warnings. 18+ only! general filth, little bit of fingering, pinv, horny writer's thought pls excuse me. mdni > I know this will not get read bc he's not popular anymore but I needed to get it out of my system (he's still not out my system btw, it’s a sickness. help!)

⎯ ☆ ⎯

It’s quiet, the evening calm. The only sounds coming from the crackle of the fireplace and soft, steady breaths. Both yours and Ray’s attention obtained by your individual papers in hand: yours, a book, and in Raymond’s, a stack of papers he’s been asked to look over. 

The feel of it all so comfortable, so familiar. 

The backs of your thighs horizontally rest over his, lounging across him with your back propped against the arm of the sofa — your new read held close to your face. Ray’s seated position remains close, tucked to you like you are to him. Nestled into one another casually.

His feet sit on the coffee table ahead, one hand clutching the pile of papers, his other resting over your thigh, touch mindless as he grazes your bare skin. The careful caress simply an absentminded act, an act of spontaneous, unprompted protection maybe. His focus fully engrossed in a page of nothing but information and numbers. 

Though to you, it wasn’t just nothing. Ray’s thoughtless touches act as a distraction to you, each stroke and brush and graze pulling your attention further and further away from your story until all that remains are muddled, merged sentences. The plot lost to you by now.

And so you peek at him over your book, gaze focused and almost delirious as you watch him, completely unaware of your lusty set of eyes. You observe him, vision fixed on his casual grip on you: ringed pinky and large, veiny hand perched upon your skin like it’s where it belonged. Everything about it so confident, so manly. Cardigan woven with wool and residual notes of whiskey and cigarettes — like it was a fortuitous, accidental representation as to who he is: gentle and virile.

You quietly pay attention to the way he works, his glasses resting atop his nose as he skims the page — his articulate, precise nature urging him to comprehend everything written. His heed to detail being one of the things most attractive about him. And yet, he had no idea what he was doing to you. Sat there, utterly unaware of his power.

Though that changes as your breathing grows inadvertently heavy, a sudden sharp inhale from you makes his neck snap to follow the sound. His eyes now focused on yours over your novel, a slight quirk in his brow as if to analyse you.

Your expression —or the top half, what he can see— is blissed, pained even. These last thirty-some minutes of gentle grazing begin to catch up with you.

He hums shortly, the noise an attempt to scope you out, though by now there’s no need for connecting dots or guessing — all evidence as clear as day. He looks down to his palm just above your knee, your thighs pressed tight together in an effort to alleviate some of the pressure you feel between them.

He uncrosses his ankles on the coffee table and leans forward, placing the stack of papers beside his whiskey tumbler. Ray clears his throat in his fist, a sly, faint smile forming behind his hand as if he’s debating with himself. His eyes drift down to the hand on your lower thigh, gaze following the ever so slow tail as he itches under your robe.

“You didn’t want to disturb me, did you?” Raymond questions, eyes pleased and proud as they flicker up to you.

“No,” you murmur with a faint shake of the head, voice catching in your throat as you watch. 

His fingers move inwards and under your nightdress, slotting between your thighs as if to separate them — his hand protruding through both thin layers of fabric. 

“So patient of you,” he teases, tilting his head forward, peering at you over the top of his glasses. “Must’ve been agony.”

It was. It really was.

With his spare hand, he reaches for your book and takes it from your hold — placing it open and faced down beside his papers to keep your space. He pulls back to sit in his original position, feet now planted on the floor, knees apart in a manspread. He taps at his thigh, running a hand down the beef of it like he was beckoning you, summoning you almost. 

“Come on,” he whispers, the instruction soft as he gestures you along. He taps at it again and rolls his hips underneath himself to reposition — preparing for you.

With an excited giggle, you do as asked, finally about to get what you want after all of his mindless teasing. You situate yourself over his lap, knees either side of his thighs as you use his shoulders for your support — keeping you up right. His eyes fix on you above, watching the antsy knitting and curving of your brows.

He spreads his arms either side along the back of the leather chesterfield, maintaining his dominance while he lets you take the lead. Or so he lets you think.

You reach between yourselves, your fingers hurriedly finicking with his belt, urging him out of his trousers. Your too quick movements stall your attempts, and you huff, the sound more similar to a whimper than anything else. 

His head cocks, amused, watching you fiddle with the buckle. Watching you fail with the buckle.

He lifts a hand from its spot behind the sofa, redirecting it to your cheek — palm large and warm as he cups the side of your face, making you look at him. Ray’s touch glides backwards to behind your neck, thumb resting over your ear as he urges you closer. Pulling you inwards. 

“Give me some sugar first.”

You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before moving away, trying to move away. Though he has other plans. His hold firm behind your neck to keep you there — bringing you back in so he could return the kiss. His beard skims at your chin as he deepens and roughens the kiss, intensifying the moment.

Though his dick is not yet hard, the presence of him is just as noticeable as if it were. The faint brushes of his big, thick cock through his trousers sends your mind into a tizzy. All your bodily responses become all the more evident, as if you’re betraying yourself. 

And with your attention consumed by the way he kisses you, he’s slipping his other hand between you both, reaching between your thighs. He itches a finger to skim down your cunt and you jolt, his touch catching you by surprise. You moan into his mouth, the sound stifled and muffled, before you pull away.

You look down to watch, but your view is obstructed by your fabric pooling around your thighs. And then he clicks his tongue, eyes still boring on your face. You follow the noise, looking back up and he nods slowly, wordlessly praising you for following along.

With your gaze fixed on his, he’s hooking his finger into the elastic of your underwear, parting it aside within his very skilled hand. He trails down your slit, all arousal noticeable when he’s met with no resistance, the slick of your cunt granting him easy access to toy with you.

He raises a brow, both satisfied and impressed. His touch remains light as he brushes the pad of his middle finger downwards, circling your entrance briefly before he’s slipping inside your cunt. 

It was something, but not enough. Nowhere close to being enough.

You wrap your arms around his neck, mouth grazing his with the closeness. 

“More,” you utter against his lips, a slight whine to your voice. “Another.”

Your hips wind involuntarily, like you’re preemptively chasing after something — anticipating it. The feel of a lone finger is far from what you needed to satiate the gaping want.

“Another what?” he speaks into your mouth, a twinge of whiskey being tasted on his tongue. He knew what he was doing, and he was abusing his power over you. “You’re a smart girl. Tell me.”

“Finger. Another finger,” you plead. Your answer is quick, like you thought the speed of your response will get you what you want faster.

He tuts quietly, lips brushing against yours as he shakes his head. 

All you can respond with is a whinge, a frustrated whinge at that and your hips still. The sensation of his finger being withdrawn from you. You mumble a faint, “What?” when you feel his hand part from behind your head, the one near your cunt too.

And then his hands drop to his lap, placing them between your thighs as he unfastens his belt — the jingling sound of the metal making your eyes widen, lighten almost. His hips raise underneath you as he tugs on the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down just enough to comfortably reach into his boxers.

He wraps a hand around himself and brings his cock out over the top, fisted grip tight as he gives it a few pumps — polishing his head as if to ready himself. With his other hand, he’s bunching the fabric of your garments, holding them up so he could guide himself closer to your cunt underneath. 

He knocks his head at your clit just to see and hear and feel you shudder, a response he often loved from you. And so with you right where he wants you, right at the edge, he’s lining up with you — his eyes fixed on yours like it's all coming from a place of muscle memory, not needing sight to know what he’s doing.

Ray presses the tip of his dick against your pussy, the shape of his head kissing at your entrance so perfectly. And when he feels like you’ve suffered enough, he’s feeding himself into you, filling you from underneath as you lower down — meeting him halfway.

Strength in your neck dissipates, your forehead collapsing against his as you inhale shakily, taking all of him until nothing remains. His balls pressing up against your cunt’s lips like you’re sitting on them. 

You lean in to kiss him while you give yourself a moment to reaccustom to him, familiarising with the thick feel of his cock. Your breath catches in your throat when you feel him bump up into you, a small jut upwards knocking the air out your lungs.

With himself wedged fully inside, he moves a hand to your throat, lightly holding under your jaw. There’s no pressure behind his touch, simply the presence there to guide you, to feel you. He keeps his mouth to yours, swallowing the little gasps you make and he tests the waters once more — adjusting his hips, pushing himself up into you entirely. The full weight of you perched upon his lap, sat on his dick.

“This what you wanted?” he murmurs, speaking against your lips.

You nod. Blissed, hazy eyes doing the talking for you as if you’ve suddenly become incapable of speaking. 

Ray runs his spare hand behind you and to the cheek of your ass, palm resting over the satin fabric as he guides you — ushering your hips forward to grind over him. Though the presence of his touch is short-lived as he reaches forward, collecting his papers from before.

With his hand on your jaw, he brings you inwards, tucking your face into his neck. He brings the papers in his view, holding the stack just to the side of you.

“If you can give me twenty minutes to finish this” he says, voice soft beside you. “I’ll fuck you for twice as long,” Ray whispers, his words a promise.

Raymond Smith is a man of his word.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[applejusue]

violet kiramman ─── marine encounters #006

On a land full of confectionaries and new foods, Vi finds it difficult to not eat all of it. Now that she's no longer swimming and working out her entire body each day, she starts to notice the effects of her large appetite.

◟`# cw: orca!vi, killer whale, size difference, comfort, fluff, eating, insecurity, weight gain, soft.

── requested by anon & @twinklestarslight

taglst '# @cherry-coffees, @sider3us, @sevikas-whore, @kittymrtnezz69, @mxya-dreams, @marvelwomenarehot0, @twinklestarslight

marine encounters | arcane masterlist . . .

A soft hum filtered through the bedroom, barely audible. It was cold, a faint shiver skittering along your spine. Your eyes fluttered open heavily to the sound of chewing, slick, a rumble. The mattress was too light, Vi wasn't smothering you with her weight. The rattling continued from outside the room, and you pushed yourself upward tiredly.

Peering through the crack in the door, you noticed her crouched on the floor, mouth smeared red. For a split second your heart stuttered, watching her black eyes flicker against the cold blue light. You fumbled groggily into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a drooping tee and underwear.

"Sweetheart-.."

Vi's head snapped up like a deer, staring wide eyed as the fridge illuminated her broad shoulders. It reminded you of how she normally looked, bathed in deep waters. As you approached, you noticed the puff pastry box that now lay empty on the floor, blotches of jam staining her lips. Even with the orca lowered, you were still only a little bit taller. You leaned down, gently swiping your thumb over her chin.

"..Hello.."

Her voice was a low purr, a gentle vibration as she pushed her way into your stomach. It tickled, and a tired smile pressed at your lips. Her words had come along significantly, mainly from her time on land with you and the exposure it brought. One of her favorite words was 'hello', and she certainly didn't use it sparingly. Your hands waded through her dark tufts of hair, scratching at her salted roots.

"Hello baby.."

You muttered back, finding it impossible to scold someone so sweet. Things were getting a little out of hand, though, you couldn't keep buying groceries. The orca was insatiable, and that was fine when she was in a sea littered with fish. On land, you didn't exactly have the luxury of unlimited food for her heavy diet. It also didn't help that everything was so new, she was drawn to the sweet treats and savory flavors that she couldn't get under water.

"Come here, I want to talk to you.."

Vi followed wordlessly, padding along the carpet. She fumbled into your arms on the sofa like a dog who hasn't realized yet that they're much bigger than they used to be. Not that you minded, though, it helped with your anxiety to have her warm weight pushing down on you. Your eyes drooped shut sleepily for a moment, cozying up to her before getting back on track.

"Listen, I know that all this food is lovely.. and that you get very hungry but.."

A sigh drifted from your lips, feeling a flicker of guilt in your heart. In Vi's mind, your fridge was an ocean. It was just a magical box that food appeared in. She wasn't aware that she was burning through two weeks worth of shopping in a few days. Vi peeked up at you curiously, brows furrowed in concentration like they always were when she was trying to understand your human tongue.

"Well.."

As you gazed down at those big dark eyes it was practically a lost cause, you already knew you were giving in. It wasn't her fault, the orca was large and hungry and it was your responsibility to take care of her. Maybe you just needed a different system, or a child lock. Either way, you'd figure something out that suited the both of you. You shook your head, drawing her in closer to your chest.

"Never mind.."

The orca watched your lips move, curious and still a little confused by what you were talking about. Vi nuzzled into your t-shirt, inhaling the smell of your fabric softener. Gentle purrs emanated from the back of her throat, a new discovery of yours that was clearer now that she was no longer beneath the water. Originally, you had just assumed she pitched, higher frequent sounds. Now that she wasn't submerged you realized her vocalizations were much broader. Her big arms surrounded you, stomach full and warm from her midnight munches.

˖✩࿐࿔

Over the next few days, Vi had begun to notice some changes. Her lower stomach, once taut was now softer, less firm. It was the same with her upper thighs, like a gentle blubber coat that laid atop her muscles. Never having experienced something like that before, she didn't put two and two together. Threading water each day and swimming for hours allowed Vi to keep up with her body's fierce diet, but now that she was on land she still had the hunger, just without the exercise to balance.

You'd noticed it too, it was cute. Her little smush of belly and soft upper thighs were comforting in their own way, made her a little less intimidating. You weren't sure if she really understood, or if she'd cared but you certainly weren't pointing it out to your girlfriend. For the sake of your wallet, though, you had been encouraging fruit seeing as she always needed to be munching on something. Vi had taken a particular liking to peaches, and it was much easier than having to always buy meats.

That evening you were editing some photos for the aquarium leaflet. You were sat in a cozy hoodie on the sofa, comfortable with your laptop sitting on the arm of the sofa. Last you seen Vi she was in the laundry room, she liked the smell of detergent and to watch the machine swirling the clothes. Your only warning that she was coming was thudding steps, before your lap was invaded. Her body was strewn across the sofa, your hands lowering to her hair absentmindedly as you continued to adjust your photo settings.

After a few minutes of quiet cuddling, Vi tugged your hand from her hair. You glanced down curiously, and she was already staring up at you with big puppy eyes. Before you could even question what she was doing, the orca dragged your hand down to her stomach, pushing up her shirt. You bit back a gentle smile, feeling her soft tummy that now peeked over her shorts. Vi still had all of that muscle, she was just a little.. softer.

"Babies?"

The orca spoke up nervously, her eyes searching yours with a seriousness that was almost amusing. Vi knew all about breeding with other sea creatures, but had all your kissing inadvertently blessed her with calves? She wasn't very knowledgeable about how human mating worked, all she knew was that her body was different. This time, you couldn't hold back your laughter. You shook your head gently, tracing the soft pudge along her chest. While she was concentrated, you tried to explain.

"No sweetheart, it's just food.."

You murmured lightly, watching the gears in her head churn slowly as she thought about your words. You could tell she still didn't understand, so you kept going.

"When you eat a lot of food, most people start to get it stored in their stomach like this. You're very tall, baby, so it's normal that you eat so much.."

An amused smile was blessing your cheeks, gaze drifting back to your computer to toggle with some more settings. You continued to rub along her stomach as she purred gently, relieved at least that she wasn't having any babies. Not that she didn't want them with you, she just hadn't figured out how yet. The unfamiliar changes still had her a little worried though, a gently pitch pulsing through her throat.

You glanced back down to her, setting your laptop aside for a moment. You managed to haul her up further onto your lap so you were closer to face to face. You tucked away some of those dark tufts, nosing at her cheek gently in a way you knew she liked.

"You don't need to worry, I still think you're the cutest thing I've ever seen.."

You spoke gently, leaving a small peck against her cheek. Her happy vibrations buzzed through you as she pulled you around. A soft giggle fled your lips as she began to bluster you with kisses all over your face, trying to hide from her attack. Your gravity shifted suddenly as she dragged you down against the back of the sofa. Your cheeks turned hot red as she towered over you playfully, her hand pushing against your own stomach.

"Babies?"

[amateurvoltaire]

April 5th, 1794: Camille Desmoulins went to the Place de la Révolution to die.

There was no journal left to write, no crowd to stir, no chance to rewrite the last page. He had already said too much.

The Revolution had eaten through its own flesh, and Camille, once its poet, was now just another name on the list.

He left behind one final letter. Not quite a manifesto. Just a man, waiting to die, writing to his wife.

The Last Letter of Camille Desmoulins

Duodi germinal, 3 a.m. (April 1st)

Sleep has mercifully suspended my suffering. In sleep, one is free, unaware of captivity. Heaven has shown me mercy. Just moments ago, I saw you in a dream: I embraced you, Horace, and Daronnen (1), who was at home. But our little one had lost an eye to some fury that had attacked him, and the pain of this vision woke me. I found myself back in my dungeon. It was daylight. Though I could neither see you nor hear your replies, even as you and your mother spoke to me, I rose to write to you at least.

But opening the windows, the thought of my solitude, the dreadful bars and bolts that part me from you, vanquished all the strength of my soul. I melted into tears, or rather, I sobbed, crying out in this tomb: Lucile! Lucile! O my dearest Lucile, where are you?

(here, we notice the trace of a tear).

Yesterday evening I experienced a similar moment, and my heart broke anew when I saw your mother in the garden. A reflexive movement drove me to my knees against the bars; I clasped my hands together as if begging for her pity, she who must be weeping now in your embrace.

Yesterday I saw her sorrow

(here again a trace of tears)

In her handkerchief and veil, lowered as if she could not bear the sight. When you come again, let her sit a little nearer to you, so that I might see you both more clearly (2).

It is not dangerous, as far as I can tell. 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.

But above all, I implore you, Lolotte (3), by our eternal love, send me your portrait. Let your painter take pity on me, I who suffer only for having shown too much compassion for others. Let him grant you two sittings each day. In the horror of this prison, the day I receive your likeness would be a day of celebration, of pure rapture and intoxication.

In the meantime, send me a lock of your hair that I may press it to my heart. My dear Lucile! Here I am, back in the days of my first love, when I was interested in someone merely because they had come from your house. Yesterday, when the citizen who brought you my letter returned, I asked him "Well, have you seen her?", just as I used to ask Abbé Landreville. I found myself studying him as if something of you had lingered on his clothes, on his very person.

He is a charitable soul, for he delivered my letter intact (4). It seems I shall see him twice daily, morning and evening. This messenger of our sorrows has become as dear to me as a bearer of joys once would have been.

I discovered a crack in my cell; I pressed my ear to it, and heard a groaning. I hazarded some words, and a voice answered: a sick man in suffering. He asked my name. I gave it. “O my God!” he cried at hearing it, falling back upon his bed, and I distinctly recognised the voice of

Fabre d’Églantine (5).

(Yes, I am Fabre, he told me; but you, in here! Has the counter-revolution succeeded?)

Yet we dare not speak further, for fear that hatred might deprive us of even this small consolation. Should we be heard, we would surely be separated and confined more strictly. He has a room with a fireplace; mine would be a fair chamber... if a dungeon could ever be called fair.

But, dear friend! You cannot imagine what it means to be held in secret, not knowing why, never interrogated, never receiving a single journal. It is to live and be dead at once, existing only to feel oneself buried in a tomb. They say innocence is calm and courageous.

Ah!

My dearest Lucile! My beloved! Often, my innocence is weak like that of a husband, that of a father, that of a son (6)! If it were Pitt or Coburg who treated me thus…! But my colleagues! Robespierre, who signed the order of my imprisonment! The Republic, after all I have done for her! Is this the reward for so many virtues and sacrifices?

When I first arrived, I saw Hérault-Séchelles, Simon, Ferroux, Chaumette, and Antonelle (7). They suffer less than I do, at least they are not held incommunicado.

And I, who for five years devoted myself to hatred and peril in the name of the Republic. I who kept my poverty through the Revolution (8). I who have none to ask forgiveness but you, my dear Lolotte, and to whom you granted it, knowing my heart, despite its frailty, was not unworthy of you. I am cast into a dungeon, in secret, as though I were a conspirator! Even Socrates was allowed to see his friends and wife in prison when he drank the hemlock (9).

How much harder to be torn from you! Even the worst criminal would suffer too cruelly if separated from a Lucile by anything except death—which at least makes one feel such agony for but a moment. But a criminal could never have been your husband, and you loved me because I lived solely for the happiness of my fellow citizens... They call me...

Just now, the commissioners of the Revolutionary Tribunal have questioned me. One question only: “Have you conspired against the Republic?” What derision! Is it thus they insult the purest republicanism?

I see the fate that awaits me. Farewell, my Lucile, my dear Lolotte, my good little wolf, say farewell to my father. In me, you see the example of man’s barbarity and ingratitude. My final moments will not disgrace you. You see that my fears were justified, that my presentiments were always true.

I married a woman heavenly in her virtue. I was a good husband and a good son; I would have been a good father. I carry with me the esteem and the regrets of all true republicans, of all men, of virtue and of liberty.

I die at thirty-four, yet it is a marvel that I have survived these past five years and so many revolutionary precipices without falling into them. That I still exist and rest my head in calm upon the pillow of my writings; too numerous, perhaps, but all breathing the same philanthropy, the same desire to make my fellow citizens happy and free, writings that the tyrants’ axe shall never strike down.

I see now that power intoxicates almost all men, that they all speak as Dionysius of Syracuse (10):

“Tyranny is a fine epitaph.”

But take comfort, desolate widow! The epitaph of your poor Camille is nobler still: it is that of the Brutuses and the Catos, the slayers of tyrants (11). O my dearest Lucile! I was born to write verse, to defend the wretched, to make you happy, to compose, with your mother, with my father, and a few souls after our own hearts, a little Tahiti (12).

I had dreamed of a Republic that all mankind would adore. I could not believe men were so savage and so unjust. How could I think a few jests in my writings, aimed at colleagues who had provoked me, would erase the memory of all my services?

I do not deceive myself: I die a victim of those jests (13) and of my friendship with Danton (14).

I thank my assassins for letting me die with him and with Philippeaux (15). Since my colleagues were cowardly enough to abandon us, to lend an ear to slanders, of which I know nothing, save that they must be vile, I may say we die martyrs of our courage in denouncing traitors and of our love for the truth.

We can at least take with us this testimony: we perish as the last true republicans.

Forgive me, dear friend, my true life, which I lost the moment we were parted. I find myself dwelling on my legacy when I should focus only on helping you forget.

My Lucile! My good Loulou! My hen of Cachant (16)! I beseech you, do not linger on the branch, do not call to me with your cries; they would tear me to pieces in the depths of the grave. Go scratch the earth for your little one, live for my Horace (17); speak to him of me. Will you tell him, though he cannot yet understand, that I would have loved him dearly?

Despite my torment, I believe there is a God. My blood shall wash away my faults, the weaknesses of humanity, and God will reward what was good in me: my virtues, my love of liberty. One day, I shall see you again, O Lucile! O Annette!

Sensitive as I was, is death, which delivers me from witnessing so many crimes, so terrible a fate? Farewell, Loulou; farewell, my life, my soul, my goddess on earth! I leave you good friends, all men of virtue and feeling.

Farewell, Lucile, my Lucile! My dear Lucile! Farewell, Horace, Annette, Adèle (18)! Farewell, my father! I feel the shore of life receding before me.

I still see Lucile! I see her, my beloved! My Lucile! My bound hands embrace you still, and my severed head rests its dying eyes upon you.

Notes:

The original French text comes from the Correspondance inédite de Camille Desmoulins, published by M. Matton aîné (Ébrard, Paris, 1836). The translation is mine.

(1) Daronne was a nickname Camille had for his mother-in-law

(2) Camille was imprisoned in the Luxembourg. Families of prisoners would gather in the prison garden so their imprisoned relatives could see them from the jail cells above.

(3) Lolotte was Lucile’s nickname

(4) "Intact" in this case means uncensored, as prisoners' letters were routinely read and censored..

(5) Fabre d’Églantine (1750–1794) was a playwright, poet, and revolutionary politician, best known for creating the names of the months in the French Republican Calendar and for his close association with Danton.

(6) The phrasing is a bit awkward in English, but what Camille is trying to say is that human bonds make him vulnerable. He's not admitting guilt; he's defending his innocence, but he's acknowledging that emotional attachments can make one act from the heart rather than from strict principle or legality.

(7) Hérault-Séchelles was a member of the Committee of Public Safety and played a key role in drafting the constitution. Though not strictly aligned with the Dantonists, he was executed alongside them on April 5th.

Simion most likely refers to Jean-Baptiste Simon, less prominent, but known as a journalist and moderate revolutionary

Ferroux's identity is problematic. While there was a Ferroux imprisoned at that time, little is known about him as he wasn't a prominent figure. Some editions of the letter suggest this is a misrendering of either Philippeaux's name or refers to Jean-Pierre-André Amar.

Chaumette is Pierre-Gaspard Chaumette a leading figure of the Hébertist faction; radical dechristianiser; President of the Commune of Paris

Antonelle is François-Joseph-Marie Fayolle d’Antonelle A moderate republican, journalist, editor of Le Républicain, and supporter of the Girondins.

(8) Camille is very much stretching the truth here …

(9) Socrates was sentenced to death by the Athenian court in 399 BCE and died by drinking a cup of hemlock, a poisonous plant, as punishment for impiety and corrupting the youth.

(10) Dionysius I, tyrant of Syracuse in Sicily during the 4th century BCE, known for his authoritarian rule and for transforming Syracuse into a major military power. He became a symbol of despotism in classical literature and later political thought, often cited as an emblem of how power corrupts and tyranny can be glorified despite its brutality.

(11) Brutus and Cato the tyrannicides refer to Marcus Junius Brutus and Marcus Porcius Cato the Younger, two influential figures of the late Roman Republic who stood against dictatorship. Brutus helped kill Julius Caesar in 44 BCE to protect Rome's freedom, while Cato opposed Caesar through political means and chose suicide rather than live under his rule.

(12) The original is "composer, avec ta mère et mon père, et quelques personnes selon notre cœur, un Otaïti." Camille is referring to Tahiti (Otaïti being the 18th-century French spelling). After Bougainville's 1768 voyage, Tahiti captured the European imagination as an idyllic paradise, a place of natural abundance, innocence, and harmony, untouched by civilization's corruption.

(13) To see the jests he is referring to, I recommend you take a look at Camille's last publication, Le Vieux Cordelier. The first two issues aligned with Jacobin's sentiment, but from the third onward, he diverged from the party line and called for moderation. His tone, satirical, accusatory, and morally urgent, was perceived by many as politically subversive and ultimately led to his arrest.

(14) Georges Danton (1759–1794) was a leading figure of the French Revolution, known for his oratory, role in founding the Revolutionary Tribunal, and early leadership of the Jacobin movement. He and Camille Desmoulins were close friends and political allies… their relationship is far too involved and complicated to explain in a short note.

(15) Pierre Philippeaux (1754–1794) was a Convention member sent on mission to the West. His detailed report exposed the brutal repression in the Vendée, especially atrocities by Republican forces under Jean-Baptiste Carrier. Camille used this report in Le Vieux Cordelier to support his plea for clemency. Philippeaux's testimony provided concrete, documented evidence of revolutionary excesses, strengthening Camille's argument that the Revolution had strayed from its principles.

(16) Translation from the original notes of the 1835 edition of the letter: Cachant is a small village near Paris, on the road to Bourg-la-Reine, where Madame Duplessis owned a country house. During their visits to Mme Duplessis, Camille and Lucile had often observed a hen in Cachant that, grief-stricken at the loss of her rooster, perched day and night on the same branch. She would emit heart-rending cries, refuse all food, and seemed to long for death. This is the hen to which Camille alludes here.

(17) Horace was the young son of Camille Desmoulins and Lucile Duplessis, born in 1792 and just a toddler at the time of his parents’ execution in 1794.

(18) Translation from the original notes of the 1835 edition of the letter: Lucile's sister, who never married and lived with her mother, became her sole consolation after the deaths of Camille, Lucile, and M. Duplessis.

[gpcwsl]

https://www.tumblr.com/gpcwsl/776182845092790272/hey-could-you-do-a-leah-williamson-x-reader

I need a part two!!!

‘Knew you’d come’ PART TWO! Part one HERE.

Leah Williamson x PhysioResponder!Reader

Part Two

WC: 2.6k+

MasterList

Warnings: kissing, making out at the end?

The fact I literally finished part two before you sent it in was comical.

The past few days had been a blur for Leah—medical checks, endless concern from teammates, and a stubborn frustration at her own body for giving out on her. She hated being seen as vulnerable. Hated that everyone had been looking at her like she was fragile.

But you—you had been different.

You didn’t treat her like she was weak. You had been steady, calm, in control when everything around her had been slipping. And you’d been the first face she saw when she woke up. The first hand she felt grounding her.

That’s why she was here now.

Leah took a deep breath, gripping the bouquet of flowers a little tighter as she knocked on your door.

A few seconds passed before it swung open, and whatever speech she had prepared in her head immediately disappeared.

You stood there, looking like you hadn’t expected company—not in the disheveled, caught-off-guard way, but in the effortlessly casual way that made Leah momentarily forget how to function.

You were wearing a pair of loose grey Arsenal sweatpants, hanging comfortably on your hips, paired with a cropped black tank top that left just enough skin exposed to make Leah’s brain short-circuit. Your hair was damp, stray strands clinging to your collarbone, and she caught the faint scent of something floral—shampoo, maybe.

You blinked at her, surprised. “Leah?”

Leah opened her mouth. Then closed it. Opened it again.

“Uh—hi,” she finally managed, shifting the flowers awkwardly in her grip.

Your eyes flickered down to them, then back up. “What’s all this?”

Leah cleared her throat, trying to pull herself together. “I just—I wanted to thank you. For… you know. Being there that day.” She held out the flowers, feeling utterly ridiculous but too deep in it now to back out.

You raised an amused eyebrow but took them anyway, glancing back at her with a small smile. “Leah, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” she blurted, then immediately regretted how eager she sounded. She quickly lifted the small bag in her other hand, desperate for a distraction. “And, um. I also got you—”

You peered inside, pulling out a box of your favorite chocolates and a bottle of the same sports recovery drink you’d given her days ago.

A soft chuckle escaped you. “You really didn’t have to.”

Leah exhaled sharply, heart hammering as she forced herself to push forward before she lost the nerve completely. “And also,” she started, voice quieter this time, “I wanted to ask if you—if you’d want to go out. With me. On a date.”

The second the words left her mouth, she felt like she was holding her breath.

You blinked at her, the smile on your face growing as you leaned against the doorframe. “Are you nervous, Williamson?”

“No.” The word came out way too fast, way too defensive, and your grin widened.

Leah groaned internally, running a hand down her face. “Okay—maybe a little. But just—give me a straight answer before I embarrass myself further, yeah?”

You laughed softly, reaching out to pluck the chocolates from the bag and holding them up. “Only if you promise I don’t have to share these.”

Leah exhaled, relief washing over her as a smirk finally tugged at her lips. “Deal.”

Training had run a little later than expected, but you didn’t mind. It gave you time to finish packing up in the physio office, carefully placing everything back in order before heading home for the evening.

You had just slung your bag over your shoulder when you heard a soft knock on the doorframe.

Turning, you found Leah leaning casually against it, arms crossed over her chest, hair still damp from her post-training shower.

She had changed into a pair of dark-wash jeans and a fitted black long-sleeve shirt, the fabric clinging in all the right places. There was something effortless about the way she carried herself, yet the slight shift of her weight from foot to foot betrayed the confidence she usually exuded.

You smiled at her, adjusting your bag. “Hey, Leah.”

She exhaled, as if working up the courage to speak. “Hey. I was, um—wondering if you wanted to grab dinner?”

Your smile softened, a warmth settling in your chest. “Are you asking me on our first date right now?”

Leah huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to consider it, before finally nodding. “Alright. Let me drop my stuff off, and we can go.”

Leah grinned, something almost relieved in her expression, before she quickly covered it with her usual cool demeanor. “Cool. Yeah. No rush.”

The restaurant was small, tucked away from the usual busy streets—a cozy Italian place that Leah had picked out last minute, though you suspected she had been planning this longer than she let on.

The lighting was dim but warm, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, casting a golden glow over the wooden tables. Soft chatter filled the air, mixed with the occasional clink of wine glasses and the scent of freshly baked bread.

You both sat across from each other in a booth near the window. Leah had been the perfect mix of confident and flustered all evening—cool and composed when ordering but slightly pink in the cheeks whenever you caught her staring at you.

She played with the stem of her wine glass, eyes flickering up to meet yours. “So,” she started, “do you always save stubborn footballers from themselves, or am I just special?”

You chuckled, taking a sip of your drink. “You’re special, alright.”

Leah smirked, but the pink in her cheeks deepened. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The conversation flowed effortlessly, filled with teasing remarks and genuine moments of connection. Leah listened intently whenever you spoke, her blue eyes locked onto you like you were the most interesting thing in the room. And every time you smiled—soft and knowing—it sent her heart into overdrive.

By the time dessert arrived, Leah had given up pretending she wasn’t completely enamored with you.

As you took a bite of your tiramisu, she rested her chin on her hand, watching you with a small, lopsided grin. “You’re really something, you know that?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Something good, I hope?”

Leah exhaled a laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah. Really good.”

And for the first time in a long while, Leah Williamson—the ever-composed, ever-cool footballer—felt completely and utterly smitten.

The drive back was quiet but comfortable, the air between you both thick with something unspoken. Leah’s hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, her fingers tapping absentmindedly as she stole glances at you when she thought you weren’t looking.

You noticed, of course. But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you let the soft hum of the car’s engine and the occasional flicker of streetlights passing through the windshield fill the space between you. The date had been perfect—effortless in a way that made you wonder why you hadn’t done this sooner.

Leah pulled up outside your place, shifting the car into park. Before you could reach for the door handle, she spoke.

“I’ll walk you up.”

You turned to her, raising an amused eyebrow. “Leah, I think I can manage.”

She huffed, shaking her head as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “I know. But let me, yeah?”

There was something earnest in her tone, something so Leah that you couldn’t say no.

You led the way to your door, Leah falling into step beside you. The night air was cool, crisp against your skin, but the warmth radiating from her presence made it barely noticeable.

When you reached your door, you turned to unlock it, expecting Leah to take it as her cue to leave. But when you glanced back, she was still there, standing just a few feet away, hands shoved into her pockets, staring.

It wasn’t just looking—it was deeper than that. The kind of gaze that made your skin prickle and your heart pound just a little harder. Her blue eyes traced over your face like she was committing every detail to memory, like she wasn’t quite ready for the night to end.

You felt it then—the pull.

Without thinking, without second-guessing, you stepped toward her, closing the space between you.

Leah barely had time to react before your hands found the collar of her jacket, tugging her forward. Her breath hitched, eyes flickering down to your lips just as yours brushed against hers—light, tentative, testing.

And then she moved.

Her hands found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your sweater as she pulled you even closer. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, as if neither of you wanted to rush, as if time itself had decided to stretch in this moment just for you.

Leah kissed you like she meant it. Like she had been waiting for this—hoping for this. Her lips were warm, soft but firm, moving against yours with a perfect mix of confidence and restraint.

You sighed into her mouth, and she responded instantly, tilting her head slightly to fit against you better. One of her hands slid up your back, fingertips grazing your spine, sending shivers down your body.

The world around you disappeared—the night, the street, the quiet hum of the city. It was just Leah, her hands, her lips, the intoxicating way she tasted—like wine and something uniquely her.

When you finally pulled away, just enough to catch your breath, Leah’s forehead rested against yours. Her eyes remained closed for a moment, like she was savoring it, before they fluttered open, locking onto yours with a dazed, breathless look.

“Wow,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You couldn’t help but smile, your thumb tracing the edge of her jaw. “Yeah. Wow.”

Leah exhaled a laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I was gonna wait.”

“For what?” you asked, still close enough to feel the warmth of her breath.

Leah smiled, lopsided and utterly smitten. “For the second date.”

You grinned, pressing a quick, teasing kiss to her lips before stepping back toward your door. “Guess we’re ahead of schedule then.”

Leah chuckled, running a hand through her hair as she watched you. “Yeah. And I don’t mind one bit.”

The night had settled in, but neither of you seemed ready to let go of the moment.

Leah lingered on the doorstep, her presence still filling the space around you even after you stepped back inside your apartment. The warmth from her lips, her touch, and the sweet hum of excitement in your chest were still there, keeping you tethered to the moment.

You looked back at her over your shoulder, a soft smile still tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to go yet.”

Leah, whose hands were shoved back into her pockets, looked like she hadn’t expected that. But the flicker of something—relief, maybe?—flashed in her eyes before she made her way toward you. “Well, if you insist,” she said, voice low and teasing, like she was still caught up in the aftermath of your kiss.

You stepped aside, allowing her to enter. The apartment was modest, cozy—the kind of place where you could just be without worrying about putting on a show. You gestured toward the couch.

“Make yourself comfortable. Want something to drink?”

Leah shook her head, though her eyes softened as she surveyed the space. She seemed to appreciate the simple comfort of it all, as if it made everything feel more real. More grounded.

“I’m okay,” she replied, her tone a little quieter than before. She stood in the doorway for a moment, not quite sure where to put herself, but you didn’t miss the way her gaze lingered on the bookshelves, the photos scattered across the walls.

You moved to the kitchen, reaching for the kettle and setting it on the stove. The soft clink of porcelain against the counter broke the silence between you both, but neither of you said anything. You could feel the weight of her presence in the room, like a silent invitation, a tension between the two of you that neither of you had to put into words.

When you turned around, she was standing by the window, her back to you, her fingers absently tracing the edge of a photograph. She wasn’t looking at it, but you could tell it wasn’t about the picture. It was about something else—something she was working through inside her head.

You stepped closer, the air between you thick with something unspoken. “You okay?”

Leah turned slowly, her lips curling up into a half-smile. But there was something in her eyes—something deeper than that surface-level smirk. “Yeah,” she said softly, her voice catching for just a second. “Just thinking.”

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. “About what?”

She took a step forward, crossing the room to close the distance between you. There was a hesitation in her movements, but she didn’t look away. “About how… about how right this feels. About how much I’ve wanted this.”

Her voice dropped even lower as she reached out, gently brushing your hair back from your face. The touch was soft, but it felt like everything was moving in slow motion, the air thick with anticipation.

“Leah…” You whispered her name, barely able to finish the sentence as her fingertips grazed your cheek.

She leaned in, her breath mingling with yours as she kissed you again—this time slower, more deliberate, her lips brushing against yours with an intensity that sent a ripple of heat through your veins.

The kiss was different than before. It wasn’t rushed, and there was no urgency this time. It was tender, exploring, savoring each moment. Her hands found your waist, pulling you close as her body pressed against yours, and you could feel the warmth of her heartbeat under your fingertips.

Every movement felt instinctive, like you were both getting lost in the rhythm of each other, learning how to make this feel right. Leah’s lips moved against yours with a kind of hunger, but there was an undeniable gentleness that kept you grounded in the moment. Her breath came in soft, shallow gasps as she parted her lips slightly, letting you deepen the kiss.

Your hands slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer as you melted into the kiss. The world outside faded away again, and all that existed was the space between you and Leah—the warmth of her touch, the softness of her skin, the rhythm of your heartbeats syncing together.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against hers, both of you breathing heavily, taking in the closeness.

Leah’s voice was a whisper, the words laced with something raw. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You let out a breath, your fingers still tangled in her hair as you spoke softly, “Me too.”

And that was all it took—no more words needed. The promise was in the kiss, in the way you held each other, in the way you both felt like you’d been moving toward this moment your entire lives, waiting for it to happen.

The evening stretched on, slow and peaceful. You both shared more moments of quiet intimacy, laughter, and soft conversation. It didn’t matter that the world outside your door kept spinning—what mattered was what was happening here, now, between the two of you.

And for the first time in a long while, Leah felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

[literatureloverx]

Hello! This is my first time asking anything so, sorry if this doesn’t make any sense. I love the way you write & your ideal type for Fyodor. I was curious, how would he have met his ideal type? I understand if you’re busy! Thank you

Hello dear!♥️ You’re not bothering at all, and I’m so happy that I’m the person you chose for your first request.♥️

I’m sorry it took me so long, and I hope you enjoy reading it!♥️

Fyodor likely saw you in a serene and sophisticated setting, such as a café, a theatre, a library, or a museum. I chose the Musée Fabre for this scenario.♥️

Religious themes, art interpretations, intrigued and manipulative Fyodor.

“A Beauty to Behold”

You move a loose strand away from your face, which reveals your small, innocent face.

Fyodor’s gaze lingers on you for a few moments longer, an odd thought crossing his mind: no one else seems to notice you. You were beautiful, undeniably so, and that alone was captivating. Yet the fact that others failed to acknowledge you, as if blind to the art before them, only heightened your allure, drawing his attention to you even more.

You, a beautiful young woman, dressed in fine stilettos and a figure-hugging, midi-length crème dress, holding a coat and a small bag of the same color in your arms, appeared to be the only one genuinely interested in the art before you—reading the text beside it and admiring the piece for more than five minutes now. ‘The Fallen Angel’ by Alexandre Cabanel.

He takes a calm stride toward you, coming to a halt just beside you—like a predator, one might think. His cool aura contrasts sharply with your warmth.

Fyodor moves a little closer to observe you more clearly, studying the way you react to the painting and the little facial expressions that appear on your beautiful features while you’re deep in thought.

After a moment, he hums, his voice light and charming.

“What do you make of this one, miss?” His eyes rest on the painting itself.

You look at him with your doe eyes, widened slightly as his approach seems to have come unexpectedly. You seem like an introverted person, and rather shy.

He finds himself intrigued by the sight of such innocence and naivety, and he can’t help the slight, cold smirk that spreads on his lips.

An unrealistically handsome man, tall and dressed in a dark suit that mirrors the intensity of his gaze, stands before you. It takes you a few moments to find your voice, but when you do, your words come softly.

“When I look at it, I feel the weight of what it means to turn away from God’s light. The angel, once so radiant and close to God, now sits alone, his face full of sorrow and defiance….”

You pause for a brief moment. “….it does not make me feel less empathetic towards the angel that is depicted in the painting. Because he does not embody the true evil that is the devil.”

Fyodor listens attentively, his smirk softening into a small, more genuine smile. Your words are not only intriguing but also reveal a certain depth and maturity. His gaze glides over you again, taking in the details of your face and figure in a subtle, nonchalant way.

“It's truly interesting, and also curious to hear someone not just throw around shallow, superficial phrases but instead look at the painting at a deeper, more analytical level, isn't it?”

“Are you in agreement with my opinion, sir?”

You say softly, with a shy undertone, subtly analysing his fine features. Clearly intrigued in your own, feminine, adorable way.

A quiet, gentle chuckle leaves Fyodor's mouth. Your shy, innocent manner of speaking and acting amuses and delights him, and he likes the way you’re looking at him, even if your gaze is shy, almost a tad timid. When he speaks, there's a slight hint of playfulness in his voice, though his sharp eyes never leave your pretty features for a second.

“That depends. Are you expecting praise, my dear?”

This was something that you did not expect, which makes you blush softly.

“Oh, I wasn't...”

You stutter.

“I…was...just asking if you agree with me.”

You recover quickly. “Do you have an opposite statement you would make?”

A smirk appears on Fyodor's lips again at the sight of your blushing and stuttering, and suddenly, he's very much enjoying this conversation. He can't put his finger on it, but there's something about this. About you. Something that is new. A lovely young woman that draws him in, makes him want to keep talking to her.

He lets out a small hum before he answers your question, his deep, melodic voice barely above a murmur.

“No, miss. I think you're absolutely correct.”

Your eyes widen, as if saying, 'you do?’. You look at the painting again, and then at Fyodor. He seems rather cold, calculating, analysing, looking into your soul, piercing through your comfort zone by playing a game of cat and mouse, in an almost nonchalant way.

He must be either bored or lonely.

“And you have nothing to add, sir?”

He shakes his head, his smirk fading into a small smile as he continues to study you, both amused and intrigued by how genuinely interested you seem in his opinion.

Your voice is so soft and sweet, he feels himself drawn to you without even realising it, the desire to prolong your conversation suddenly appearing in his head.

He can tell that you’re alone—a sweet, beautiful person like you, all by yourself in this grand museum, pursuing your passion. He figured out most of this —and more— within the first few minutes of meeting you.

The corner of Fyodor's lips curls up into a very subtle, almost mischievous-looking smile. He likes how you want to extend the conversation, and he decides to play along, simply because the thought of leaving you, this charming, beautiful young woman, alone does not please him.

He takes a step closer, now standing right next to you as he looks at the painting as well, his eyes roaming over the colors and shapes that create a fascinating composition.

“Well, I suppose I could say a few more things. Would you be interested in hearing them?”

You nod softly. “Yes, please do.”

Fyodor is satisfied to see that you seem to desire more, and he can’t help but let his gaze flit from the painting back to you, lingering on the soft features of your lovely face for a moment before he speaks again.

His deep voice is as melodic as before, but it’s clear that he’s more interested in you than in the art at the moment—a fact only he is aware of, something you could never tell.

“You're already correct when you say the angel does not embody true malice, but I think, in order to understand the pain and defiance on his face, it's important to look at what has led to his downfall.”

“You mean to say... the rebellion?”

He nods, a sly, almost mischievous smirk appearing on his lips once more with how he watches your reactions to his words, enjoying seeing you paying so much attention to his point of view.

Everything about you is sweet, and Fyodor is slowly becoming more and more intrigued, wanting to see more of it the longer you talk.

It is truly strange. He feels a certain way, and his frozen heart does not seem to keep up with this feeling.

“Precisely, my dear. The fallen angel chose to go against the Creator. That's what caused his downfall. His choice, no one else's.”

You nod thoughtfully, whispering softly.

“One is responsible for whatever one does. Only strong minds can withstand the corruption of the seven deadly sins… but no one can truly escape them, because being human means having weaknesses. One could say that human beings are sinful and foolish, for they cannot help but be corrupted. But then again… that is what makes them human. Being human is not a sin.”

The quiet, barely audible sound of your voice is like music to his ears, and his smile widens slightly at your words. You clearly possess a wisdom and intelligence that goes beyond your age, and this makes the interest and amusement he feels for you only grow. You’re so… proper.

You make for a far more interesting conversation than any intellectual or even philosophical topic he could go on about with other individuals. You lack his level of intellect, sure, but he can’t deny that you’re not someone who bores him.

Rather than challenging him, you present an understanding of his own perspective, which is more comforting than threatening. Something he is not used to. Not naive, but simply pure.

A power so few people have. An objective view on the matter of humanity.

His smirk turns sharp, and the subtle mischief in his eyes is more obvious as he continues looking at you while speaking.

“So very true, my dear. To fall... is your own choice indeed.”

You smile sweetly at him, your gaze demure and soft with intrigue.

“It is not common for me to find someone who shares my views.” You say gently.

“I heard interpretations about his tragic beauty, contrasting with the sorrow and defiance in his expression, symbolising the consequences of pride and ambition. It's often seen as a romanticised portrayal of Lucifer's fall, emphasizing themes of rebellion, loss, and the fragility of even the most exalted beings.”

You look at the painting. “But it never seemed enough to me.”

He hums in thought, allowing his gaze to flicker from your delicate features to the painting and back again as he listens to what you have to say.

Your words are eloquent, and they show an intelligence and depth of understanding that even people a lot older than you are lacking.

And yet, there is still something so innocent and sweet about you, something that makes him want to see those beautiful doe eyes of yours looking up at him in awe... He has to suppress a small chuckle, keeping his voice in a tone just as soft as yours is.

“So it seemed insufficient to you?”

“No one ever truly depicts the true evil in its pure form, don't you think? It was not easy to understand. The idea of there being a true, pure evil. I believe that is why so many people are romanticising it…”

You gaze at Fyodor. “…Because they can’t understand that he is simply, purely, evil. He chose to defy God and rebel—not out of altruistic ambitions, but because of his pride. He’s no human. He should’ve known better.”

You smile sweetly. “But it is nice to know that at least someone agrees with me.”

His smirk returns, and his expression turns sharp as he leans towards you ever so subtly, his deep voice still as soft and melodic as ever, though the slight mocking tone in his words is clear.

Ah, so you crave attention and approval from someone more capable of seeing what others cannot? How very cute. Not that he didn’t already figure that out.

“I couldn't agree more, miss...?”

You say your name softly. “…a pleasure to meet you, mister...?”

You extend your hand towards him in a warm, friendly manner. Fyodor takes it, your hand slender and delicate in his larger, paler one.

His grip is firm but gentle, as though afraid of breaking you. That is unlike him—he is used to breaking and destroying things.

And yet, there is something about you that makes him feel at ease. Your touch is almost like a relief. A sense of serenity in this twisted world.

The smirk on his lips never leaves, and for a moment he holds your hand a second too long, enjoying the feel of your soft skin underneath his fingers.

“Fyodor Dostoevsky.”

The chemistry between you two could almost be felt from a hundred miles away.

“…Mister Dostoevsky,” you say softly.

He hums, the way you say his name causing his smirk to fade into a small smile—the first one that is truly and fully genuine.

Your voice is even more lovely when his name falls from your lips, and he can tell you’re not just another pretty young woman who pretends to have some knowledge about the topics discussed—not when just the way you pronounce his name makes a pleasant shiver run down his spine.

He gently lets go of your hand, although reluctantly, and his eyes never leave your pretty face as he continues speaking.

“You’re not a local if I’m hearing the right accent, are you, miss?”

“Yes, I’m not. I’m (any heritage). And you are… Russian?” you ask softly.

He nods, his eyes never leaving hers as he gazes at your innocently curious expression. You’re so open, so pure and genuine in the way you speak and present yourself, and it amuses and fascinates him in a way he can’t quite describe as he listens to your soft, melodic voice.

“Russian, indeed. I take it it’s rather obvious?”

You giggle softly. “The accent, yes, but the name says it all.”

He lets out a quiet, deep chuckle at the sound of your soft laughter, the corners of his lips curled up into a small smile. He likes your laugh and your voice, how gentle and sweet you are. It is like a fresh breeze.

“Ah, I was correct, then. You truly know more than the average young person.”

“I learned a little bit of Russian at home—that is why—because I enjoyed reading Russian literature, but I’m afraid it’s not good enough for me to present it to the ears of a native speaker…”

You sound shy. He can’t help the way he smiles at the thought of you trying to learn his language, and the fact that you’re doing it out of interest in his nation’s literature makes it only sweeter.

You truly are an interesting young lady, and the more he learns about you, the more your innocently demure appearance and your shy behavior intrigue him. He’s well-schooled enough to keep it hidden behind his polite smile.

“I would be delighted to hear you try, darling.”

You look shyly at him, seemingly regretting having admitted that you know a little Russian, stuttering:

“I—I’d r-rather not…”

Fyodor’s smile only grows at seeing your shy, embarrassed reaction. You truly are adorable, blushing and stuttering as you try to get out of speaking. He decides to have mercy on you.

“Very well, if you’re not comfortable doing so, I won’t pressure you.”

His eyes continue to study you, and he still has a hard time figuring out what it is about you that makes him want to continue this conversation.

You sigh softly, preparing yourself to bid this interesting stranger goodbye with your innocent gaze.

Oh dear, he can read you all too well.

“Mister Dostoevsky—”

“A moment, my dear.”

You are flustered because he seems to have such a sharp mind, which is both thrilling and unnerving in a positive way. The way he could tell that you were trying to leave without giving a real sign is truly admirable—and somewhat creepy, but you were too dazzled by him to know any better.

“I’m listening, Mister Dostoevsky.”

“There will be a party of artists and intellectuals in a few days, here at the opera. One of the more important ones, it is. I would enjoy having someone as intelligent and lovely as you there.”

(That’s a lie; there is no party and no intellectuals—only his rats, which he will use to create the ambiance.)

His amethyst eyes never leave your face as he speaks, observing every little expression you might make while listening to his words.

He can’t deny that he’s interested in you, a form of interest he’s not used to. A very dark, and deeply rooted desire that seems to shine through his icy walls.

Your eyes sparkle as you listen to his words, recognising the slightly flirty but cool undertone of his words.

His gaze is intimidatingly direct and deep, which makes your cheeks flush softly. You can’t help but be flattered by the invitation. And you certainly cannot say no to him.

There is just something about him that makes your heart flutter with joy and excitement. And you do have time during that particular timeframe before heading back to your own country. So… why not?

“I would be delighted, Mister Dostoevsky.”

His smile turns into a soft smirk, and he hums in slight satisfaction as you agree. The feeling is quite intriguing, to say the least. He gives a slight bow, not once taking his eyes off your face.

“So am I, considering I’ll get to see you there, my dear.”

You try to hide your flustered face by tilting your head innocently.

“Is there any dress code I should look out for?”

Fyodor hums for a moment. He has already calculated that you would ask this, as you seem to be a very proper young lady who does not wish to overstep. And you will, of course, wear what he wants you to.

“No, not really. The evening’s theme is white, so it would be best if you wear a white, elegant dress. Other than that, there’s not much to know. However, I am certain you shall look enchanting no matter what you wear.”

You blush. “Thank you very much. Then… s-shall I give you my phone number?” You ask nervously.

He smiles at your flustered reaction. You really are adorable, blushing like a little schoolgirl being asked for her number for the first time.

He cannot recall having had a woman so nervous about giving him, a man, her contact information, and he enjoys watching just how shy you get while doing so.

He takes your number with the same polite smile, but he does not use his phone or write it down anywhere.

“Thank you, and I will ensure to text you the details of the event later on, my dear.”

You are confused because he did not write your number down anywhere. No way he’d be able to memorise it this quickly, right?

“And… you can memorise it this instant?”

He doesn’t try to hold back his amused chuckle this time at your confused expression, and the smirk that’s back on his lips is one of mild mockery.

“Of course, my dear. I happen to have a good memory. It would truly be foolish of me not to make use of it.”

Woah!!! I had so much fun writing this. I’m down bad. ♥️

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Frev appearance descriptions masterpost

Jean-Paul Marat — In Histoire de la Révolution française: 1789-1796 (1851) Nicolas Villiaumé pins down Marat’s height to four pieds and eight pouces (around 157 cm). This is a somewhat dubious claim considering Villiaumé was born 26 years after Marat’s death and therefore hardly could have measured him himself, but we do know he had had contacts with Marat’s sister Albertine, so maybe there’s still something to this. That Marat was short is however not something Villaumé is alone in claiming. Brissot wrote in his memoirs that he was ”the size of a sapajou,” the pamphlet Bordel patriotique (1791) claimed that he had ”such a sad face, such an unattractive height,” while John Moore in A Journal During a Residence in France, From the Beginning of August, to the Middle of December, 1792 (1793) documented that ”Marat is little man, of a cadaverous complexion, and a countenance exceedingly expressive of his disposition. […] The only artifice he uses in favour of his looks is that of wearing a round hat, so far pulled down before as to hide a great part of his countenance.” In Portrait de Marat (1793) Fabre d’Eglantine left the following very detailed description: ”Marat was short of stature, scarcely five feet high. He was nevertheless of a firm, thick-set figure, without being stout. His shoulders and chest were broad, the lower part of his body thin, thigh short and thick, legs bowed, and strong arms, which he employed with great vigor and grace. Upon a rather short neck he carried a head of a very pronounced character. He had a large and bony face, aquiline nose, flat and slightly depressed, the under part of the nose prominent; the mouth medium-sized and curled at one corner by a frequent contraction; the lips were thin, the forehead large, the eyes of a yellowish grey color, spirited, animated, piercing, clear, naturally soft and ever gracious and with a confident look; the eyebrows thin, the complexion thick and skin withered, chin unshaven, hair brown and neglected. He was accustomed to walk with head erect, straight and thrown back, with a measured stride that kept time with the movement of his hips. His ordinary carriage was with his two arms firmly crossed upon his chest. In speaking in society he always appeared much agitated, and almost invariably ended the expression of a sentiment by a movement of the foot, which he thrust rapidly forward, stamping it at the same time on the ground, and then rising on tiptoe, as though to lift his short stature to the height of his opinion. The tone of his voice was thin, sonorous, slightly hoarse, and of a ringing quality. A defect of the tongue rendered it difficult for him to pronounce clearly the letters c and l, to which he was accustomed to give the sound g. There was no other perceptible peculiarity except a rather heavy manner of utterance; but the beauty of his thought, the fullness of his eloquence, the simplicity of his elocution, and the point of his speeches absolutely effaced the maxillary heaviness. At the tribune, if he rose without obstacle or excitement, he stood with assurance and dignity, his right hand upon his hip, his left arm extended upon the desk in front of him, his head thrown back, turned toward his audience at three-quarters, and a little inclined toward his right shoulder. If on the contrary he had to vanquish at the tribune the shrieking of chicanery and bad faith or the despotism of the president, he awaited the reéstablishment of order in silence and resuming his speech with firmness, he adopted a bold attitude, his arms crossed diagonally upon his chest, his figure bent forward toward the left. His face and his look at such times acquired an almost sardonic character, which was not belied by the cynicism of his speech. He dressed in a careless manner: indeed, his negligence in this respect announced a complete neglect of the conventions of custom and of taste and, one might almost say, gave him an air of ressemblance.”

Albertine Marat — both Alphonse Ésquiros and François-Vincent Raspail who each interviewed Albertine in her old age, as well as Albertine’s obituary (1841) noted a striking similarity in apperance between her and her older brother. Esquiros added that she had ”two black and piercing eyes.” A neighbor of Albertine claimed in 1847 that she had ”the face of a man,” and that she had told her that ”my comrades were never jealous of me, I was too ugly for that” (cited in Marat et ses calomniateurs ou Réfutation de l’Histoire des Girondins de Lamartine (1847) by Constant Hilbe) 

Simonne Evrard — An official minute from July 1792, written shortly after Marat’s death, affirmed the following: “Height: 1m, 62, brown hair and eyebrows, ordinary forehead, aquiline nose, brown eyes, large mouth, oval face.” The minute for her interrogation instead says: “grey eyes, average mouth.”Cited in this article by marat-jean-paul.org. When a neighbor was asked whether Simonne was pretty or not around two decades after her death in 1824, she responded that she was ”très-bien” and possessed ”an angelic sweetness” (cited in Marat et ses calomniateurs ou Réfutation de l’Histoire des Girondins de Lamartine (1847) by Constant Hilbe) while Joseph Souberbielle instead claimed that ”she was extremely plain and could never have had any good looks.”

Maximilien Robespierre — The hostile pampleth Vie secrette, politique et curieuse de M. J Maximilien Robespierre… released shortly after thermidor by L. Duperron, specifies Robespierre’s hight to have been ”five pieds and two or three pouces” (between 165 and 170 cm). He gets described as being ”of mediocre hight” by his former teacher Liévin-Bonaventure Proyart in 1795, ”a little below average height” by journalist Galart de Montjoie in 1795, ”of medium hight” by the former Convention deputy Antoine-Claire Thibaudeau in 1830 and ”of middling form” by his sister in 1834, but ”of small size” by John Moore in 1792 and Claude François Beaulieu in 1824. The 1792 pampleth Le véritable portrait de nos législateurs… wrote that Robespierre lacked ”an imposing physique, a body à la Danton,”supported by Joseph Fiévée who described him as ”small and frail” in 1836, and Louis Marie de La Révellière who said he was ”a physically puny man” in his memoirs published 1895. For his face, both François Guérin (on a note written below a sketch in 1791), Buzot in his Mémoires sur la Révolution française (written 1794), Germaine de Staël in her Considerations on the Principal Events of the French Revolution (1818), a foreign visitor by the name of Reichardt in 1792 (cited in Robespierre by J.M Thompson), Beaulieu and La Révellière-Lépeaux all agreed that he had a ”pale complexion.” Charlotte does instead describe it as ”delicate” and writes that Maximilien’s face ”breathed sweetness and goodwill, but it was not as regularly handsome as that of his brother,” while Proyart claims his apperance was ”entirely commonplace.” The foreigner Reichardt wrote Robespierre had ”flattened, almost crushed in, features,” something which Proyart agrees with, writing that his ”very flat features” consisted of ”a rather small head born on broad shoulders, a round face, an indifferent pock-marked complexion, a livid hue [and] a small round nose.” Thibaudeau writes Robespierre had a ”thin face and cold physiognomy, bilious complexion and false look,” Duperron that ”his colouring was livid, bilious;  his eyes gloomy and dull,” something which Stanislas Fréron in Notes sur Robespierre (1794) also agrees with, claiming that ”Robespierre was choked with bile. His yellow eyes and complexion showed it.” His eyes were however green according to Merlin de Thionville and Guérin while Proyart insists they were ”pale blue and slightly sunken.”  Etienne Dumont, who claimed to have talked to Robespierre twice, wrote in his Souvernirs sur Mirabeau et sur les deux premières assemblées législatives (1832) that ”he had a sinister appearance; he would not look people in the face, and blinked continually and painfully,” and Duperron too insists on ”a frequent flickering of the eyelids.” Both Fréron, Buzot, Merlin de Thionville, La Révellière, Louis Sébastien Mercier in his Le Nouveau Paris (1797) and Beffroy de Reigny in Dictionnaire néologique des hommes et des choses ou notice alphabétique des hommes de la Révolution, qui ont paru à l’Auteur les plus dignes d’attention… (1799) made the peculiar claim that Robespierre’s face was similar to that of a cat. Proyart, Beaulieu and Millingen all wrote that it was marked by smallpox scars, ”mediocretly” according to Proyart, ”deeply” according to the other two. Proyart also writes that Robespierre’s hair was light brown (châtain-blond). He is the only one to have described his hair color as far as I’m aware. 

For his clothes, both Montjoie, Louis-Sébastien Mercier in 1801, Helen Maria Williams in 1795, Duperron, Millingen and Fiévée recall the fact that Robespierre wore glasses, the first two claiming he never appeared in public without them, Duperron that he ”almost always” wore them, and Millingen that they were green. Pierre Villiers, who claimed to have served as Robespierre’s secretary in 1790, recalled in Souvenirs d'un deporté (1802) that Robespierre ”was very frugal, fastidiously clean in his clothes, I could almost say in his one coat, which was was of a dark olive colour,” but also that ”He was very poor and had not even proper clothes,” and even had to borrow a suit from a friend at one point. Duperron records that ”[Robespierre’s] clothes were elegant, his hair always neat,” Millingen that ”his dress was careful, and I recollect that he wore a frill and ruffles, that seemed to me of valuable lace,”Charlotte that ”his dress was of an extreme cleanliness without fastidiousness,” Williams that he ”always appeared not only dressed with neatness, but with some degree of elegance, and while he called himself the leader of the sans-culottes, never adopted the costume of his band. His hideous countenance […] was decorated with hair carefully arranged and nicely powdered,” Fiévée that Robespierre in 1793 was ”almost alone in having retained the costume and hairstyle in use before the Revolution,” something which made him ressemble ”a tailor from the Ancien régime,” Thibadeau that ”he was neat in his clothes, and he had kept the powder when no one wore it anymore,” Germaine de Staël that ”he was the only person who wore powder in his hair; his clothes were neat, and his countenance nothing familiar,” Révellière writes that Robespierre’s voice was ”toneless, monotonous and harsh,” Beaulieu that it ”was sharp and shrill, almost always in tune with violence,” and  Thinadeau that his ”tone” was ”dogmatic and imperious.”

Augustin Robespierre — described as ”big, well formed, and [with a] face full of nobility and beauty” in the memoirs of his sister Charlotte. Charles Nodier did in Souvenirs, épisodes et portraits pour servir à l'histoire de la Révolution et de l'Empire (1831) recall that Augustin had a ”pale and macerated physiognomy” and a quite monotonous voice.

Charlotte Robespierre — an anonymous doctor who claimed to have run into Charlotte in 1833, the year before her death, described her as ”very thin.” Jules Simon, who reported to have met her the following year, did him too describe her as ”a very thin woman, very upright in her small frame, dressed in the antique style with very puritanical cleanliness.”

Camille Desmoulins — described as ”quite tall, with good shoulders” in number 16 of the hostile journal Chronique du Manège (1790). Described as ugly by both said journal, the journal Journal Général de la Cour et de la Ville in 1791, his friend François Suleau in 1791, former teacher Proyart in 1795, Galart de Montjoie in 1796, Georges Duval in 1841, Amandine Rolland in 1864 (she does however add that it was ”with that witty and animated ugliness that pleases”) and even himself in 1793. Proyart describes his complexion as ”black,” Duval as ”bilious.” Both of them agree in calling his eyes ”sinister.” Duval also claims that Desmoulins’ physiognomy was similar to that of an ospray. Montjoie writes that Desmoulins had ”a difficult pronunciation, a hard voice, no oratorical talent,” Proyart that ”he spoke very heavily and stammered in speech” and Camille himself that he has ”difficulty in pronunciation” in a letter dated March 1787, and confesses ”the feebleness of my voice and my slight oratorical powers” in number 4 of the Vieux Cordelier. In his very last letter to his wife, dated April 1 1794, Desmoulins reveals that he wears glasses.

Lucile Desmoulins — The concierge at the Sainte-Pélagie prison documented the following when Lucille was brought before him on April 4 1794: ”height of five pieds and one and a half pouce (166 cm). Brown hair, eyebrows and eyes. Middle sized nose and mouth. Round face and chin. Ordinary front. A mark above the chin on the right.” Cited in Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un rêve de république (2018). Described as beautiful by the journal Journal Général de la Cour et de la Ville in 1791 (it specifies her to be ”as pretty as her husband is ugly”), former Convention deputy Pierre Paganel in 1815, Louis Marie Prudhomme in 1830, Amandine Rolland in 1864 and Théodore de Lameth (memoirs published 1913).

Georges Danton — Described as having an ugly face by both Manon Roland in 1793, Vadier in 1794, the anonymous pamphlet Histoire, caractère de Maximilien Robespierre et anecdotes sur ses successeurs in 1794, Louis-Sébastien Mercier in 1797, Antoine Fantin-Desodoards in 1807, John Gideon Millingen in 1848, Élisabeth Duplay Lebas in the 1840s, the memoirs (1860) of François-René Chateaubriand (he specifies that Danton had ”the face of a gendarme mixed with that of a lustful and cruel prosecutor”) as well as the Mémoires de la Societé d’agriculture, commerce, sciences et arts du department de la Marse, Chalons-sur-Marne (1862). As reason for this ugliness, Millingen lifts his ”course, shaggy hair” (that apparently gave him the apperance of a ”wild beast”), the fact he was deeply marked with small-poxes, and that his eyes were unusually small (”and sparkling in surrounding darkness”), while Chateaubriand instead underlines that he was ”snub-nosed,” with ”windy nostrils [and] seamed flats.” Mercier writes that Danton’s face was ”hideously crushed.” The former Convention deputy Alexandre Rousselin (1774-1847) reported in his Danton — Fragment Historique that Danton developed a lip deformity after getting gored by a bull as a baby, had his nose crushed by another bull, got trampled in the face by a group of pigs and finally survived ”a very serious case of smallpoxes, accompanied by purpura.” In 1792, John Moore reported that ”Danton is not so tall, but much broader than Roland; his form is coarse and uncommonly robust,” while Vadier claims that Danton possessed a ”robust form, colossal eloquence,” the anonymous pamphlet that ”he was very strong, he said himself that he had athletic forms,” Desodoards that he ”held the nature of athletic and colossal forms,” Chateaubriand that he was ”a vandal in the size of Goth” (don’t know who he’s referring to), Pierre Paganel (in Essai historique et critique sur la révolution française: ses causes, ses résultats, avec les portraits des hommes les plus célèbres (1815)) that he was of an ”enormous stature,” while the pamphlet described him as a ”gigantic orator” whose voice ”shook the vaults of the hall.” René Levasseur in 1829, John Moore, Millingen, Paganel and Desodoards all agreed with this, the first four writing that Danton possessed a ”stentorian voice,” the latter that he had ”a very strong voice, without being sonorous or flexible.” In her memoirs (1834) Charlotte Robespierre claims that ”[Danton] did not at all conserve the dignity suited to the representative of a great people in his manners; his toilette was in disorder.”

Louis Antoine Saint-Just — In Saint-Just (1985) Bernard Vinot writes that Saint-Just’s childhood friend Augustin Lejeune recalled his “honest physiognomy,” and that his sister Louise would evoke her brother’s ”great beauty” for her grandchildren (I unfortunately can’t find the original sources here). The elderly Élisabeth Le Bas too stated that ”he was handsome, Saint-Just, with his pensive face, on which one saw the greatest energy, tempered by an air of indefinable gentleness and candor” (testimony found in Les Carnets de David d’Angers (1838-1855) by Pierre-Jean David d’Angers, cited in Veuve de Thermidor: le rôle et l'influence d'Élisabeth Duplay-Le Bas (1772-1859) sur la mémoire et l'historiographie de la Révolution française (2023) by Jolène Audrey Bureau, page 127). In Souvenirs de la révolution et de l’empire, Charles Nodier (who was twelve years old when he met Saint-Just…) agrees in calling him ”handsome,” but adds that he ”was far from offering this graceful combination of cute features with which we have seen it endowed by the euphemistic pencil of a lithograph,” had an ”ample and rather disproportionate chin,” that ”the arc of his eyebrows, instead of rounding into smooth and regular semi-circles, was closer to a straight line, and its interior angles, which were bushy and severe, merged into one another at the slightest serious thought that one saw pass on his forehead” and finally that ”his soft and fleshy lips indicated an almost invincible inclination to laziness and voluptuousness.” How would you know what his lips were like, Nodier. In Essai historique et critique sur la révolution française (1815) Pierre Paganel writes that Saint-Just had ”regular features and austere physiognomy.” He describes his complexion as ”bilious” while Nodier calls it ”pale and grayish, like that of most of the active men of the revolution.” Similar to Élisabeth’s description, Nodier writes that Saint-Just’s eyes were big and ”usually thoughtful,” while Paganel instead writes they were ”small and lively.” Saint-Just was of ”average height” according to Paganel, but ”of small stature” according to Nodier. According to Paganel, Saint-Just had a ”healthy body [and] proportions which expressed strength,” while Saint-Just’s colleague Levasseur de la Sarthe instead wrote in his memoirs that he was ”weak in body, to the point of fearing the whistling of bullets.” Finally, Paganel also gives the following details: ”large head, thick hair, disdainful gaze, strong but veiled voice, a general tinge of anxiety, the dark accent of concern and distrust, an extreme coldness in tone and manners.” In Lettre de Camille Desmoulins, député de Paris à la Convention, August général Dillon en prison aux Madelonettes (1793) Desmoulins jokingly writes that ”one can see by [Saint-Just’s] gait and bearing that he looks upon his own head as the corner-stone of the Revolution, for he carries it upon his shoulders with as much respect and as if it was the Sacred Host.” In Histoire de la Révolution française(1878), Jules Michelet claims that Élisabeth Le Bas had told him that this portrait, depicting Saint-Just as having ”a very low forehead, [with] the top of his head flattened, so that his hair, without being long, almost touched his eyes,” was similar to what he had looked like.

Jacques-Pierre Brissot — The following was documented after Brissot had been arrested at Moulins on June 10 1793 — ”height of five pieds (162 cm), a small amount of flat dark brown hair, eyebrows of the same color, high forehead and receding hairline, gray-brown, quite large and covered eyes, long and not very large nose, average mouth, long chin with a dimple, black beard, oval face narrow at the bottom” (cited in J.-P. Brissot mémoires (1754-1793); [suivi de] correspondance et papiers (1912)). In Journal During a Residence in France, from the Beginning of August, to the Middle of December, 1792 John Moore described Brissot as ”a little man, of an intelligent countenance, but of a weakly frame of body” and claimed that a person had told him that Brissot had told him that he is ”of so feeble a constitution” that he won’t be able to put up any resistance was someone try to assassinate him.

Jérôme Pétion — described as ”big and fat” (grand et gros) by Louis-Philippe in 1850 (cited in The Croker Papers: the Correspondence and Diaries of the late right honourable John Wilson Croker… (1885) volume 3, page 209). Manon Roland wrote in her memoirs that Pétion ”had nothing to regret physically; his size, his face, his gentleness, his urbanity, speak in his favor” as well as that he ”spoke fairly well,” a descriptions which Louis Marie Prudhomme partly agreed with, himself recording that Pétion ”had a proud countenance, a fairly handsome face, an affable look, a gentle eloquence, movements of talent and address; but his manners were composed, his eyes were dull, and he had something glistening in his features which repelled confidence” in Paris pendant le révolution (1789-1798) ou le nouveau Paris (1798). In Quelques notices pour l’histoire, et le récit de mes périls depuis le 31 mai 1793 (1794) Jean-Baptiste Louvet reported that, while on the run from the authorities after the insurrection of May 31, the less than forty years old Pétion already had a white hair and beard. This is confirmed by Frédéric Vaultier, who in Souvenirs de l'insurrection Normande, dite du Fédéralisme, en 1793 (1858) described Pétion during the same period as ”a good-looking man, with a calm and open physiognomy and beautiful white hair,” as well as by the examination of his mangled courpse on June 26 1794, which states he had ”grayish hair” (cited in Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées (1872) by Charles Vatel, volume 2, page 154.

François Buzot — according to the memoirs (1793) of Manon Roland, he had ”a noble figure and elegant size.” In the examination made of Buzot’s body after the suicide there is to read that he had black hair (cited in Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées (1872) by Charles Vatel, volume 2, page 153)

Charles Barbaroux — his son wrote in Jeunesse de Barbaroux (1822) that ”nature had richly endowed Barbaroux; a robust and large body; a charming, fine and witty physiognomy.” In 1867, François Laprade, who had witnessed Barbaroux’ execution as a thirteen year old, recollected that ”he was a brown man - that is to say he had brownish skin, black hair and beard, reclining figure” (cited in Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées, volume 3, page 728). Valazé’s daughter did in her old age too describe Barbaroux as very dark, with black hair, black beard and large black eyes. According to her, he was ”excessively beautiful,” with well-defined lips, beautiful teeth and fine, delicate features, so much so in fact that colleagues would often joke about his beauty. Cited in Ibid, volume 3, page 728.

Marguerite-Élie Guadet — According to his passport (cited in Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées, volume 3, page 672): ”height of 5 pieds, 5 pouces (176 cm) middle sized mouth, black hair and eyebrows, ordinary chin, blue eyes, big forehead, thin face, upturned nose.” According to Frédéric Vaultier’s Souvenirs de l'insurrection Normande, dite du Fédéralisme, en 1793(1858), ”Guadet was a man of fine height, meagre, brown, bilious complexion, black beard, most expressive face.”

Joseph Le Bon — his passport description (cited in Louis Jacob, Joseph Le Bon, (1932) by Louis Jacob, volume 1, page 63) gives the following information: ”Height of five pieds six pouces (178 cm), light brown hair and eyebrows, high forehead, average nose, blue eyes, medium-sized mouth, smallpox scars.”

Claire Lacombe — the concierge of the Sainte Pélagie documented the following about the imprisoned Lacombe: ”height of 5 pieds, 2 pouces (168 cm). Brown hair, eyebrows and eyes, medium nose, large mouth, round face and chin, plain forehead” (cited in Trois femmes de la Révolution : Olymps de Gouges, Théroigne de Méricourt, Rose Lacombe (1900) by Léopold Lacour)

Charlotte Corday — according to her passport, ”height of five pieds one pouce (165 cm), brown hair and eyebrows, gray eyes, high forehead, long nose, medium mouth, round, forked (fourchu) chin, oval face.” (cited in Dossiers du procès criminel de Charlotte Corday, devant le Tribunal révolutionnaire(1861) by Charles-Joseph Vatel, page 55)

Prieur de la Marne — a passport dated October 1 1793 gives the following details: ”age of 37 years, height of 5 pieds 5 pouces (176 cm), blondish brown hair and eyebrows, receding hairline, long nose, grey eyes, large mouth.”

Maurice Duplay — ”height of 5 pieds 6 pouces (179 cm), blondish brown hair and eyebrows, receding hairline, grey eyes, long, open nose, large mouth, round, full chin and face.” Descriptions given in 1795 and cited in Les deniers montagnards (1874) by Jules Claretie.

Jean Lambert Tallien — Both a spy report written in 1794 found among Robespierre’s papers and Mme de la Tour du Pin, a noblewoman who met Tallien in late 1793, describe Tallien’s hair as blonde. Mme de la Tour du Pin adds that said hair was curly and that he had a pretty face.

[gliphyartfan]

@yanderelinkeduniverse @stars-for-thought @imprisioned-in-the-hole @screaming-until-god-hears-me @crestfallenmermaidan @ice-cream-writes-stuff @linked-heroes @eternadreeblissa

So thank you love @lovanmari for dragging me away from my humble ditch to finish this wip that I have not looked at for over a year (maybe more I don’t even remember.)

Plus my recent rewrite for Hyrule really made me wanna write more about him and his interactions with his Fae Fam~

Yandy! You may recall the start of this wip!

Anywho, enjoy folks!

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At first, it seemed like she was merely under the weather.

There was nothing to suggest it was anything more serious. She brushed off any concerns, always giving them a reassuring smile that never quite reached her eyes.

Days passed, and her condition worsened. Her skin grew clammy, and she started to withdraw more often.

She tried to push through, to hide her growing discomfort.

Her fever spiked suddenly one evening while she was helping Wind gather wood. She stumbled, her breath coming in shallow gasps, before collapsing against a tree with a pained whimper. She curled into herself, tears spilling down her cheeks as her body shook from the fever's relentless assault.

It was Twilight who reached her first, gathering her up in his arms and holding her close as the others rushed to make camp.

His heart pounded with fear as she trembled in his arms, her body so limp it was terrifying. Warriors and Time raced into the nearby town for medicine, while Four and Wind stayed behind with Twilight, trying to bring her some relief.

Hyrule had been the first to try and heal her, pouring every ounce of magic he had into her weakened body. But the illness that plagued her was stubborn, festering in a way his magic couldn’t entirely purge.

His hands soon trembled with exhaustion as he continued to try, his magic flickering like a dying flame. When he finally collapsed, drained and pale, Warriors and Time forced him to sleep, both men looking shaken by how serious things had gotten.

The camp was quiet now, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the occasional murmur of wind through the trees. Four sat beside her, watching the sweat bead across her brow, his own fear tightening around his chest. Her skin burned to the touch, and her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps.

His fingers carded through her damp hair in an attempt to soothe her when she suddenly stirred, blinking up at him with glassy, fever-bright eyes.

“You... guys… always do everything... for nothing,” she muttered weakly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Shh,” Four hushed her gently, adjusting her so she could sit up and drink some water. He raised the bottle to her lips, helping her take a few slow sips. “Don’t talk. You need to rest.”

“No...” she slurred, her words thick with exhaustion and fever, her gaze unfocused. “You... you do so much. Get hurt. Fight... And no one ever thanks you.”

Four swallowed hard, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth. “That’s not true. We’ve been thanked plenty of times.”

“No...” She shook her head, her movements sluggish. “No one sees you... they see the hero... just the hero.” Her breath hitched as more tears spilled down her cheeks. “You get hurt for people... and they don’t see how much it costs.”

Four’s brow furrowed, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He tried to brush it off, to deflect with his usual gentle humor, but the raw pain in her voice made it impossible. She wasn’t thinking straight, delirium clouded her mind, but there was truth buried in her fevered rambling. He stayed silent, not sure what to say.

“It’s not fair...” she whispered, her voice cracking as her tears began to fall faster. “It’s not fair what you’ve been through. It’s not right...”

“(Y/n)...” Four’s voice was soft, barely audible over her quiet sobs. He rested his hand on her arm, trying to ground her.

“I don’t want you to do this if it’s just because you have to,” she whimpered, her fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his tunic. “I don’t want you to hurt anymore.”

Four’s heart twisted painfully in his chest, her words hitting him harder than any enemy ever could. He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off with a trembling sob.

“I hate it... I hate that no one ever told you... it’s unfair. What happened to you... to all of you. It’s not right.”

Her grip on his tunic tightened, her fevered mind pushing her emotions to the surface. She was breaking down in front of him, unraveling at the seams, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

“Don’t cry...” Four whispered, his voice cracking. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry...” she whimpered, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. “I’m so sorry you gave up so much... for a world that only wants you to fight their battles for them.”

Her words hung in the air like a heavy fog, and Four felt something inside him shift, like the walls he kept around his heart were starting to crack.

Suddenly, her hand reached out, and she brought his fingers to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. The small gesture nearly shattered him.

“I can’t... fix this...” she whispered, her voice so faint he barely heard it.

"It’s alright, please understand that," Four said softly, his voice trembling, his control over his emotions slipping.

Vio’s presence immediately took over as the rest of the colors allowed him full control, he gently laid her back down.

She weakly protested, trying to stay awake, but Vio’s gentle assertiveness soothed her into submission.

He tucked her under the blankets, his eyes watching her every move, noting the way her body still shivered from the fever.

"It’s not fair..." she mumbled one last time before finally slipping into a fitful sleep.

Vio stood, expression unreadable as he watched over her. "No," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "It’s not fair."

——

——

They had all promised her it would pass soon, and she believed them, trying to put on a brave face and push through. But as the days stretched on, her strength slipped away bit by bit.

Despite their reassurances, she grew weaker. Then, she needed help just to stand up after resting, and eventually, even sipping water became impossible without assistance.

They would guide the cup to her lips, murmuring words of encouragement, but her hands shook too much to hold it herself. She could barely swallow without wincing, each small action taking all of her energy. The cold bite of the world touching her skin was nothing compared to the fire in her veins.

And still, they kept their promises. They told her she would get better, that they’d find a way.

But no matter how brave a face they put on when she was awake, when her eyes closed, their masks slipped. Desperation took hold.

And she could sense it, the fraying edges of their composure, the way their voices wavered when they thought she wasn’t listening. When they thought she was fully asleep.

Hyrule was the worst of them. He was burning through his magic faster than anyone could stop him, draining potions to the last drop to restore his strength.

He would kneel at her side, whispering incantations, hands glowing as he tried to heal her. Every time, the warmth of his magic brought a brief flicker of relief.

The pain would ebb just for a moment, and she could breathe easier, but the reprieve never lasted. As soon as the magic faded, the agony crashed back into her, harsher than before.

She didn’t blame him. How could she? She could see the way his eyes dimmed with every failed attempt, the way his hands shook as he poured every last ounce of himself into trying to save her.

Even when she weakly begged him to stop to not drain himself so harshly, Warriors pulling him back to rest and Time stepping in with stern words, Hyrule fought to stay awake, refusing to give up.

He looked at her with such sorrow, as if he were the one hurting her.

But it wasn’t his fault. She wanted to tell him, to tell all of them, that none of this was their fault.

Even if they were blaming themselves for her suffering, she didn’t hold any of it against them. How could she, when they were trying so hard? When every one of them was wearing themselves thin just to keep her alive?

They didn’t sleep. Not really. Twilight kept watch over her when she drifted off, his eyes never leaving her face.

Wild hovered nearby, fingers itching to fix something, anything, even though there was nothing for him to do. Time and Warriors were constant pillars of the group, keeping the busy so they didn’t stew in their anxiety, but she could feel the weight of their worry pressing down like a storm cloud about to burst.

The only time they ever showed how close they were to breaking was when they thought she couldn’t see, when they thought she was lost in the haze of fever or unconscious from exhaustion.

But she saw it. She saw the way Four clenched his fists, the way Wind paced, muttering curses under his breath.

Even Legend, normally so composed, had moments where he faltered.

And Hyrule... Hyrule’s guilt was eating him alive.

He would sit by her side, barely holding back his frustration, his despair. His magic, the one thing that had always brought hope, couldn’t heal her, and he couldn’t bear it.

But even in her haze, even as the pain throbbed in every corner of her body, she didn’t blame them. Not for a second.

They had done everything they could.

——

——

The days stretched into a blur of desperation, punctuated by moments of gut-wrenching fear and fleeting hope. It had been nearly a week since her illness took a turn for the worse. A week since they’d been scrambling to keep her alive. Despite their best efforts, (y/n) was slipping further from them each day.

The nearby village’s only doctor was useless, simply stating that it was like nothing he had ever seen, and that chances of recovery were most certainly slim to none.

Her condition deteriorated quickly. What started as extreme exhaustion had now left her bedridden, her body trembling fiercely and her skin becoming pale as wax.

Every breath seemed like a struggle, every movement too much for her body to bear. The fever raged, unrelenting, burning her from the inside. And as her strength faded, so did the light in their eyes.

Hyrule had become a shadow of himself. He hadn’t slept in days unless it was from passing out, his magic reserves draining back to empty the moment he woke up and crawled back to her.

Each time he used his healing magic, it took more out of him, the toll becoming increasingly visible. His skin was drawn, dark circles etched under his eyes, and his hands trembled as he worked tirelessly over her. His breathing was shallow, his body aching from the strain, but still, he refused to stop.

They all knew he was pushing himself too far, but no one could bring themselves to intervene. Not when the fear that they would lose her loomed over them all like a dark cloud.

Twilight, Wind, Four and Legend had taken on the task of gathering supplies, disappearing to the nearby town almost every day.

They were the fastest, the ones who could sneak in and out with ease. At first, they had relied on buying potions and medicine, but as time wore on, the merchant began to see their desperation, raising his prices to absurd levels.

It didn’t take long for the group to abandon any notion of paying fairly.

Twilight would distract the merchant with a pleasant smile, while Four split up to keep watch as Wind and Legend slipped behind the stalls, taking what they needed without hesitation. It wasn’t theft, not really. Not when the merchant had already tried to scam them.

It was necessary. They couldn’t afford to waste time arguing over prices when every second mattered.

But despite their efforts, the potions barely made a difference. At best, they gave (y/n) temporary relief, literal moments where her breathing eased and the pain receded, but it returned worse than before. The illness had taken a vicious hold, tightening its grip with every passing day.

Warriors and Time kept watch over Hyrule, though neither could hide their growing frustration.

They’d tried to reason with him, tried to force him to rest, if only so he had the strength to continue later, but Hyrule wouldn’t listen.

His stubbornness had reached a new height, fueled by the guilt eating away at him. He couldn’t give up. He wouldn’t.

“She’ll get better,” he insisted through chapped lips, his voice hoarse and trembling with exhaustion. “I just need... I need more time. Please, just... give me more time.”

But even as he said it, they could see the cracks forming. He was running on empty, his body barely holding up under the strain. And still, (y/n)’s condition worsened.

She couldn’t even open her eyes anymore, her body too weak to respond to their voices. She drifted in and out of consciousness, her fevered mind lost in a haze of pain.

When she was awake, she tried to smile at them, tried to offer some kind of comfort despite her suffering. But they could see the truth, she was fading. Her brightness was slipping away, and no matter how hard they fought, it felt like they were losing her.

At night, when they thought she was too far gone to notice, they let their masks drop completely.

Twilight paced restlessly by the fire, his fists clenched as he stared into the flames, guilt gnawing at him for not being able to protect her.

Wind and Four sat beside her, their usually carefree demeanor replaced with silent, tear-filled eyes as they held her hand and brushed her hair back, whispering to her with voices so soft it barely reached the others.

Warriors stood guard, his jaw set, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep as he stared out into the night, waiting for the moment when everything would crumble.

And Time... Time sat at her side, his calloused hand holding hers, as if he could anchor her to the world with his presence alone. He was silent, his expression unreadable, but the tightness in his grip betrayed his fear.

Legend wasn’t any better. He sat farther away from the rest but still close to her, his arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes never left her. His hands were clenched into tight fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his composure. He couldn’t lose her. None of them could.

But with each passing day, that fear became more real. More suffocating.

One evening, when the others had gone to town again, Hyrule collapsed beside her, his magic finally failing him.

He was unconscious before they could reach him, his body giving out from the constant use of his power. Warriors was the one to scoop him up and lay him beside her, his expression grim.

“We can’t keep this up,” he muttered, his voice tight with emotion. “We’re losing her and with the rate the Traveler is going, we’ll lose both of them.”

Twilight, who had been silent for hours, finally spoke. His voice was rough, filled with raw, unfiltered fear.

“Then we find another way. I won’t let her die.”

No one argued, but the despair was written on all their faces.

They had to find another way. But what? How long could they keep running to town, stealing potions, praying for a miracle that never seemed to come?

How long could they keep up the façade that everything would be okay when every moment felt like she was slipping further away from them?

——

——

The atmosphere around the camp had become oppressive, a heavy, choking tension that none of them could shake.

The sound of their own thoughts was deafening, and yet, no one dared to speak much. Not anymore. Not when every word felt like a countdown to the inevitable.

(y/n) was still hanging on, barely, her shallow breaths echoing through the campsite. But the fear that she could slip away at any moment had taken its toll on all of them.

Their once seamless movements now seemed jagged and unnatural.

Twilight’s steps, once so sure and steady, had grown erratic, his pacing more frantic as the days passed. He muttered under his breath, words lost to the wind as his gaze flitted between the dying fire and (y/n)’s prone form.

The others weren’t much better. Four’s usual sharp, observant eyes had grown wild, darting to every shadow as if waiting for something, anything, to happen. He often caught himself muttering to himself, strange fragmented thoughts that would normally never see the light of day.

Warriors sat apart from the rest, fingers twitching as though he wanted to reach for his sword at every sound. His jaw clenched and unclenched, a subtle but constant reminder of his fraying patience.

Legend, normally quick with his sarcasm or a biting comment, was eerily silent, his hands wringing the edge of his tunic over and over again. His eyes were dark, haunted, as if he were seeing something none of the others could.

Even Time, ever the rock of the group, had begun to slip. His movements were mechanical, too precise to be natural, his expression cold and distant.

But it was his eyes that gave him away, those sharp, calculating eyes now flickered with something wild, something desperate.

And then there was Hyrule.

Hyrule, who had been the most drained, the most exhausted, suddenly seemed to be... different.

He was still pale, his face hollowed from the constant exertion of his magic, but something about him had changed. He was oddly focused, his gaze distant but intensely sharp, as if picking up on something the others couldn’t see.

He sat by (y/n)’s side more often now, his eyes narrowing as he stared out into the distance, as though something was calling to him. The others noticed it too. the way he seemed unsettled, the way his fingers twitched as if itching to reach for something just out of his grasp. Sometimes, he would mutter to himself, low enough that only those closest could hear.

“This place... I swear there’s something familiar here,” he whispered one night, his voice barely above a breath. “Something I’ve seen before... felt before... but I don’t know why.”

The others exchanged glances, but were too focused on (y/n) to dwell on it.

Still, there was something about the way Hyrule had begun to withdraw, something in his eyes that made them uneasy.

He was debating something in his mind, that much was clear. But no one dared to ask.

Then, one night, (y/n)’s breathing had faltered. Just for a moment. Just long enough to send them all into a spiral of panic.

Hyrule had rushed to her side, using what little magic he had recovered to try and stabilize her. She’d slipped back into unconsciousness, her body colder than before.

The scare left them shaken to their core, but it was Hyrule who seemed the most affected.

That night, he hadn’t spoken. He’d sat silently by the fire, staring into the flames, his expression tight, his eyes distant. The others tried to talk to him, to see if he was alright, but he gave nothing away. No one pressed further.

The next morning, he was gone.

It was Twilight who noticed first, his eyes scanning the camp as he called out for Hyrule, his voice laced with frustration. But there was no answer. He wasn’t there. His bag, his supplies, everything was gone, as if he had vanished into thin air.

It didn’t take long for the others to realize what had happened, and soon the camp was filled with the sounds of heated whispers, their voices low but tense.

“Where the hell did he go?” Legend hissed, his hands shaking as he raked them through his hair. “He wouldn’t just leave, not without saying something.”

“He was acting weird,” Wind muttered, pacing again, his movements jerky. “He was muttering about something being familiar. Maybe he went to find it.”

“Find what?” Warriors snapped, his voice sharp. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, the village is useless cause it’s so small it doesn’t even have a doctor, and (y/n) could die any second. He knows that!”

“I don’t know!” Wild shot back, his voice strained. “But something’s not right. He’s been pushing himself too hard.”

“We all have,” Time said quietly, his voice calm, though his knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping his sword. “But abandoning us? Abandoning her? There’s no excuse.”

Twilight growled under his breath, his hands clenched into fists. “We need him. We can’t—"

“Maybe he found something,” Sky interrupted, his voice quieter but no less tense. “Something he didn’t want to say in front of us.”

“Or maybe he’s finally lost it,” Warriors muttered darkly. “We all know how much he’s been using his magic. It could’ve driven him over the edge.”

The argument continued, their voices rising and falling as they debated what to do. But underneath it all, the fact was clear.

Hyrule was gone by his own free will.

And if they couldn’t find him, or if he didn’t come back soon, (y/n) might be gone too.

——

——

Without Hyrule, (y/n)‘s moments of respite were non-existent.

The group fell deeper into despair. Every breath (y/n) took sounded weaker, raspier, her skin pale and cold to the touch. They tried to stay strong, but the strain showed.

Time and Warriors rarely spoke now, their grim expressions enough to convey the gravity of the situation.

Twilight remained as Wolfie, using his heightened senses in an attempt to monitor (y/m)’s withering condition.

Four kept snapping at anyone who hesitated too long to do something for her, and Legend, normally so composed, spent hours quietly sitting by (y/n)'s side, holding her hand as if sheer will alone could keep her with them.

One evening, as the group huddled in the camp’s dim light, Wild finally whispered what they all dreaded to hear.

"I can’t give her any more potions or elixirs," he murmured, his voice thick with frustration. "They aren’t working anymore."

His words hung in the air like a death sentence. No one wanted to acknowledge it, but they all knew. The potions weren’t helping. Nothing was helping. Yet even so, they whispered to her in the dark, their voices shaky and tearful.

"Just a little longer, okay?" Twilight would plead softly. "You’re strong. You can fight this."

Legend would gently press his forehead against (y/n)’s, his voice breaking. "Don’t leave us. Please. We need you."

But deep down, they all feared it was too late.

——

——

Hyrule returned.

He stumbled into the camp just as the group braced themselves for the possibility of that (y/n) wouldn’t survive that night.

His sudden appearance should have brought relief, but instead, it ignited anger. The others turned on him, their eyes wild with rage and fear.

"Where were you?" Legend hissed, storming up to him, grabbing him by the collar of his tunic, his voice shaking with rage and betrayal.

"How could you abandoned her!" Four cried out, fists balled up tightly.

"How could you leave?" Warriors snarled. "We needed you, SHE needed you!"

Hyrule, however, was too exhausted to flinch from their words. He stood before them, pale and bloodied, his eyes heavy with sleeplessness. But despite his worn appearance, his gaze was resolute.

"I didn’t want to leave," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "But… I’m glad I did."

Before anyone could respond viciously to that, Hyrule raised his hands, and with a pulse of his magic, rejuvenated and contrary to his physical condition, the air around them filled with soft, melodic chimes.

Time, Legend, and Warrior’s eyes widened, immediately recognizing the sound for what it was.

A moment later, the area around them lit up, as the sly was filled with a swarm of fairies, their wings shimmering like tiny stars as they descended upon (y/n), surrounding her with gentle light.

The fairies whispered soothing words, their voices like the rustle of leaves in a breeze, comforting both the group and (y/n), even though she remained unconscious.

The warmth of their magic radiated outward, the oppressive weight of the situation lifting as they began to work.

"It was a curse disguising itself as an illness," Hyrule explained, his voice faint from exhaustion. " and I could feel something off since we arrived here. Something... familiar. I didn’t understand it at first. But it clicked eventually.“

He looked up at the sky for a moment, “This place... it’s MY Hyrule, but so far into the future that I didn’t recognize it. But the pulse of magic... that, I knew."

He swayed slightly, catching himself before he fell. "I gambled. Left to investigate, and I was right. I found the Great Fairy Fountain in the same place it’s always been."

His lips curved into a small, weary smile. "To this land, it had been so long. But to her, I was only gone for a short while, despite the centuries that have passed between our time jumps. She agreed to help me... to help her." He glanced at (y/n), whose skin now glowed faintly beneath the soft light of the fairies. "Her daughters came with me, but the Great Mother has requested we bring (y/n) to the fountain so she can personally aid in her recovery."

The group stared in stunned silence, their emotions torn between anger, relief, and disbelief. The sight of the fairies working on (y/n), their gentle magic already combating the curse, was a miracle they had barely dared to hope for.

"I’m sorry," Hyrule said desperately as Legend’s hand let go of his tunic, his voice breaking from the tears he was holding back, barely above a whisper. "I did what I had to do... but I…I just couldn’t keep add it without searching for an actual solution. To actually make sure she pulls through."

As the fairies continued to work, a glimmer of hope returned to the now silent group.

——

——

Twilight and Warriors had barely exchanged words as they approached the merchant's stall. The merchant, initially wary but hopeful for a profitable exchange, quickly realized his mistake when Twilight’s eyes narrowed and Warriors' grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

"We’re borrowing your cart," Warriors had stated coldly, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. Twilight’s hand hovered threateningly near his own blade, the intent clear. There would be no payment, no bargaining. They would be taking the cart, and the merchant wouldn’t stop them.

The merchant, pale and trembling, simply nodded, backing away as the two heroes secured the cart to Epona, ignoring the man's feeble protests.

When they returned to the camp, Twilight, with Hyrule’s careful guidance, gently placed (y/n) inside the cart. Her fragile body was carefully cushioned by blankets, and even then, she barely stirred.

The fairies flitted around her constantly, their magic a steady hum as they continued to combat the curse.

With everyone in place, Epona began to pull them toward the Great Fairy’s fountain.

Twilight, walking beside his loyal steed, murmured soothing words to the horse as they made their way through the winding paths, Hyrule sitting in the cart with (y/n), his focus entirely on her, the weight of his exhaustion finally showing but his resolve never faltering.

At the Great Fairy’s fountain, the air shimmered with an otherworldly light. As they arrived, the Great Fairy emerged from the glimmering waters, her presence overwhelming yet comforting.

Without a word, she extended her arms toward (y/n), and with a soft pulse of magic, (y/n)’s body floated from the cart, suspended in a gentle glow. She was carefully placed in the pool of water and magic, her limp form cradled by the shimmering light as the curse continued to be fought off.

Days passed. The Chain set up camp near the fountain, watching anxiously as the fairies and the Great Fairy worked tirelessly to heal (y/n).

Slowly, ever so slowly, the signs of improvement became visible. Her once pale complexion began to warm, her breathing grew steadier, and the oppressive weight of the curse lessened.

But exhaustion took its toll on the group. One by one, the others succumbed to sleep, their bodies and minds drained from days of fear and desperation.

Only Hyrule remained awake, too restless, too vigilant to allow himself the luxury of sleep. He sat near the water’s edge, watching over (y/n) as she floated peacefully in the glowing pool.

Then, in the stillness of the night, (y/n) stirred.

Hyrule’s eyes widened as he saw her eyelids flutter weakly.

For a brief, fleeting moment, her eyes opened, just a sliver, as if she was struggling to take in her surroundings. Hyrule’s breath caught in his throat as he knelt closer, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Shhhhh…” He gently hushed, as if trying to calm whatever unease she may currently feel, his voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment. "You’re safe now. Everything is going to be alright."

Her eyes, though heavy with fatigue, seemed to register his words. A faint glimmer of recognition passed through them before they fluttered shut again, her body relaxing as though she had accepted his promise.

Hyrule let out a shaky breath, a wave of relief washing over him. She was still with them. She was fighting, and now, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, it seemed like she might win.

——

——

The Great Fairy watched (y/n) in her pool of magic and water, her ethereal face softening with a sense of quiet awe. "I must say, her will is extraordinary," she murmured, her voice like the chime of delicate bells. "The curse was designed to break the will of its victim, to erode their strength of spirit until nothing remained. But this one... she fought it. Every moment. Impressive."

Hyrule, still weary and bloodied from his desperate journey, glanced down at (y/n) with a tender smile. "That’s just who she is," he replied quietly. "She’s always surprising us. Always pushing through the impossible." His voice softened, a note of fondness threading through it. "It’s one of the things I love about her."

The Great Fairy tilted her head, her knowing eyes gleaming with amusement, but she said nothing, turning instead to watch her daughters as they continued to flutter around (y/n), their magic mingling with her own. Though the power they offered was unnecessary now, their presence was comforting, both to (y/n) and the Chain. The fairies worked with gentle grace, their whispered words soft like a lullaby.

Hyrule glanced at the others, still slumbering deeply by the fountain, drained from days of anxiety and fear. He didn’t tell them about (y/n)’s brief moment of consciousness earlier. He knew it would only upset them that they hadn’t been there to witness it, to share in the small flicker of hope.

And so, he kept it to himself, watching over her as she grew stronger with each passing day. The curse slowly unraveled, her body regaining warmth and color, her breathing steadying until, one day, her eyes opened again.

It was brief, just a few minutes, but enough to soothe the raw edges of their hearts. She was weak, her voice barely above a whisper, but the warmth in her eyes as she looked at each of them melted the tension that had kept them on edge.

"I'm okay," she whispered, her words fragile but filled with reassurance. "I’m alright now." Her hand trembled as she reached out, and Wild was the first to take it, tears threatening to spill over as he squeezed her hand tightly.

"We were so scared..." Warriors muttered, voice rough with emotion as he knelt beside her, his mask of stoic composure cracked. "You had us worried, Dear Heart."

She offered them a faint, tired smile. "I’m sorry... but it’s alright now, right? You’re all safe. I’m safe."

They all gathered around her, voices gentle but urgent as they reassured her it was alright now, that she was safe, and they would never let something like this happen again.

As days passed, her strength gradually returned, and the nights became less suffocating as she was slowly tugged away from death’s door.

One evening, while the others slept, (y/n) remained awake, her body finally strong enough to allow her more moments of clarity. Hyrule was keeping watch, sitting quietly by the edge of the campfire, when her soft voice broke the stillness.

"Hyrule..." she murmured, her eyes half-lidded but focused on him.

He quickly moved to her side, concern flashing across his face. "What is it? Are you alright?"

She smiled, small but genuine, and it reached her eyes, softening the tired lines etched into her face. "I just... I wanted to thank you. Even when I didn’t know where I was, when it felt like everything was trying to pull me away, I always had this sense of…you. Of you right by my side."

….what..?

Hyrule’s breath caught in his throat, his heart clenching at her words.

She…had felt him?

“I didn’t know how I knew it was you. But I knew. You have no idea how much that helped.”

She had known he had been there? That he had fought the curse every step of the way?

She chuckled weakly, though it was more of a breathy laugh than anything, but there was joy in it. "Now I know how Twilight felt when he was bedridden. It’s not fun being the one to almost die."

Hyrule couldn’t help but smile back, a quiet chuckle escaping him despite the weight of the past days. He gently took her hand, holding it between his own as he replied, "You were never alone. Not for a second. Never."

She squeezed his hand, her strength fragile but there.

As (y/n)’s eyes grew heavier, she gave Hyrule a weak but sincere smile. “Thank you... for never giving up on me...” she whispered, her voice barely audible, each word a fragile breath. “Not once…”

Hyrule’s heart clenched as the words hit him, the gratitude and warmth in her tone making his chest tighten painfully. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. The emotion swelling within him was too strong, and he could only manage a soft, shaky breath.

“Rest,” he whispered instead, his voice tender, barely holding back his tears. “I’ll watch over you. You’re safe now.”

Her eyes fluttered closed, her stamina finally spent, and her breathing evened out into the quiet rhythm of sleep. Hyrule stayed there, staring at her for a long moment, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to fall.

After a few moments, he slowly lifted his head, his gaze shifting to the Great Fairy who had been watching the exchange with a gentle, knowing smile. Her eyes glimmered with warmth, and the soft chime of her magic hummed in the air, as comforting as a lullaby.

“She... she thanked me,” Hyrule whispered, his voice breaking slightly as he sniffled. “I... I did a good job. I helped...”

His voice was fragile, raw with relief and exhaustion, and as he spoke, he let the weight of everything he had been holding in finally settle. He had helped. He had made a difference.

The Great Fairy’s soft, melodic chime filled the air, and with it, a pulse of magic swept gently over him, a warm wave of love and affection that radiated through his entire being.

The sensation was so soothing, so full of comfort, that even the other sleeping heroes unconsciously relaxed, their bodies softening in their sleep as if the magic had touched them too.

Hyrule sniffled again, wiping at his eyes as he gave the Great Fairy a grateful, tearful smile. He had helped. He had done his part to save her, and now, she was going to be alright.

Everything was going to be okay.

[milliesfishes]

Hii! Do u think u could write something about maybe how in the second episode in season 1 billy and reader r together and she accidentally gets herself in the middle of him and antrims feuds and billy becomes very protective?

౨ৎ꣑ৎprotective billy antrim౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x billy the kid

Billy Antrim came to you like a rainstorm soaking a flower field.

His family had moved into town less than a year ago, a lovely mother, adorable little brother, a tired looking man and Billy. Your attention was piqued immediately by them. Plenty of new families moved to Silver City all the time, but there was something about this one...well, something about their oldest son...that kept your eye on them.

You merely watched from afar at first, eyeing them from the marketplace or the general store. It wasn't that you set out to see them, but they happened to be in town often at the same times you were.

But it wasn't until you met Mrs. Antrim that you started to get closer to them.

You were looking at a bolt of fabric, running your fingers along the material and debating making a new dress out of it when she appeared beside you. She was looking at another fabric, pinching it between her fingers. Noticing you, she smiled. "That's a lovely color." A lilted Irish accent made her words all the more charming to you. "It'll look fetching with your hair."

"Thank you," you smiled, looking over at the blue color she was examining. "Is that for you?"

"My son, Billy," she explained, holding up a bit of it and considering. "He needs a new shirt. He's had the old one for a long while."

"I see," you nodded, measuring out a stretch and handing the shopkeeper the money for it. "Do you live in town?"

"Yes," she smiled sweetly. "Just moved here a few weeks ago."

"Do you like it so far?" you questioned, folding up your cut.

"It's a far sight from some of the towns we've lived in," she laughed. "In the best way."

"I'm glad to hear it," you said, watching as she paid for her own fabric. "It'll be wonderful to have you here."

"Kathleen," she introduced herself, holding out her hand. You shook it nicely, telling her your name. She eyed you with a smile. "You're a sweetheart. I'll be happy to come across you again."

Indeed, every time you did after that she was. Kathleen always had a kind word for you, and you looked forward to seeing her. She was the first of the Antrims you met.

The second was Joe, whom you quickly grew fond of. He was with his mother one day in the market, and after that you'd slip him a sweet in passing every time you saw him. He was a sweet little boy who clearly loved his mother dearly.

Mr. Antrim was next, although you didn't exactly meet him. He came often to the bar you worked at, and you served him whiskey after whiskey almost every time you had a shift.

And then there was Billy. You'd heard Kathleen speak of him several times, but never come across him.

Until one day when you were out walking on a cloudy day as you often did, in a meadow close to town. Musing to yourself as you wandered, you were surprised by a raindrop hitting your nose. Looking up, you noted the dark grey color of the sky. Hopefully it wouldn't be too bad during the walk back.

But quickly your hopes were put to death when it began to pour, the rain soaking your skin and dress. You laughed, spinning once and holding your hands up to the sky.

A voice startled you out of your bliss, and you spun to see a man standing behind you with a concerned expression on his face. "You alright miss?"

Nodding in a bit of a daze from the shock, you realized who it was. The only member of the Antrim family you hadn't met.

You couldn't help but study him up close. So many times he'd been observed from far away, and your curiosity had gotten ahold of you this time. Billy was tall, on the leaner side but with broad shoulders. There was a gun belt slung around his hips, and a hat on his head, with dark brown curls peeking out. His shirt, you noticed with a modicum of satisfaction, matched the fabric Kathleen had been looking at awhile back.

"I'm okay," you assured him, pushing some of your wet hair out of your face. "I was just taking a walk and now..." you looked up at the sky then back at him. "I don't mind the rain."

This brought a little smile to his face, but he still moved closer to you. Now you could see the color of his eyes. Pure, deep blue, like the sky on a cloudless day. He was less than a foot away from you. "Still, it's gonna be a rough storm, looks like. Would ya-?"

Thunder rumbled nearby, and you jumped, automatically moving toward Billy. His hand came to your back in a protective way that nearly made you swoon.

"Ain't safe to walk back now," Billy commented, looking down at you. "Here, we can go into the clearing 'n wait out the worst of it."

"Okay," you nodded, and he took your hand, leading you through the meadow and into the trees, hiding where it was dry. The both of you were soaking wet.

"I know a little spot nearby," Billy explained, still guiding you through the clearing. "Lightning hits trees, don't want ya to get struck."

"That wouldn't be great," you agreed, and he gave you a nod.

"It's just-ah!" Billy led you to a slot in the nearby mountain akin to a gaping mouth. "Here. We'll be safe in here."

"You've been here before?" you asked, shivering a bit as you stepped in. It was dark and cold and you folded your arms around yourself to try and maintain a little body heat.

"Come here sometimes," he explained, nodding at a little circle of stones near you. "I'll start a fire. Could be awhile." You noticed a stack of cut wood to the side. It was clear he was a frequent visitor.

"Sit," he nodded, stacking wood in the circle and pulling out matches. "Can't have ya freezin' to death."

You did so hesitantly, putting out your hands when the flames started to catch on the wood. Looking up at him, you tilted your head. "Do you often rescue strange girls from thunderstorms?"

A smile quirked his lips. "I know who you are. My momma's rather fond of ya. M' brother too."

That made you smile, and you looked down. "I see."

He was sitting with one leg propped up, an elbow resting on his knee. "My momma reckons you're a sweetheart."

"That's nice of her," you blushed, looking down. "She's lovely as well."

"She is," he agreed, studying you. There was a moment of silence as the fire crackled, and with the way he was looking at you, you shivered in a way that didn't have anything to do with the cold.

He held out his arm. "C'mere."

"Hm?" you furrowed your brow in confusion.

"You're still soakin' wet," he said, his arm still extended. "I've got plenty've heat to go around."

"You're wet too," you pointed out and Billy laughed.

"Yeah but I'm bigger than you. C'mere," he flexed his fingers. "Lemme warm you up."

Carefully you moved over, into the safe looking space of his arm. He pulled you against him, settling his hand on your midsection as he held you close. "This alright?" You nodded, letting yourself lean into him. His clothes were still damp, but he was warm. You liked his hand there, big and warm with fingers sprawled across you.

"I've seen you around town before," you said quietly, your cheek smushed against his shoulder.

"Have ya?" he sounded amused, his fingers twitching on your side. "'nd ya never said anything?"

"No," you said simply, and he chuckled.

"Think I woulda noticed such a pretty girl," he commented, and you saw him set his hat by the fire to dry off.

That made you blush more, and you couldn't help your smile. "I keep to myself."

"Ah," he nodded in an understanding way. Billy rubbed your side in a respectful way, trying to warm you up more. "Has your family lived here long?"

"Not too much longer than yours," you said, staring into the fire and watching it dance.

"What's the story?" he questioned, looking down at you. "If ya don't mind me asking?"

"My father married someone new," you explained, looking up at him with a soft smile. There was something about him that made you want to tell him everything in your mind. "He wanted a fresh start."

He was looking at you in a way you couldn't place, but it felt warm. Cautiously, he lifted a bent thumb to brush a strand of wet hair from your cheek. "D'ya like it here?"

"More and more," you said, looking up at him. Something changed in his eyes and you looked up at him with doe ones. "Why did your family move here?"

Billy chuckled lightly, brushing your cheek with his thumb. "Y'know, it was pretty much the same reason as you. 'cept it was my mother who got married a lotta years back."

You nodded in understanding, looking up at him. "It must've been hard."

"Was," he nodded. "I'm gettin' used to it though. The town, not my mother's husband."

"Don't like him much?" It slipped out before you could filter it. "Oh- I'm sorry-"

"It's okay," he assured you, giving you a fond look. "It's okay. No, I don't. He's...well, he's done things no man should be proud of."

You nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry. It can't be easy living with him." Your hand moved to his on your stomach, interlacing the fingers and squeezing. It felt so natural that you barely remembered you'd only met him today.

Billy smiled softly. "Yeah. But it's okay." He squeezed back. "He ain't my whole life."

The storm turned out to be far more perilous and long than the two of you had originally thought, and when he suggested you spend the night in the cavern, you agreed straightaway. You were happy with your choice when he laid down by the fire and snuggled up to you from behind to keep you warm.

After the night in the cave, you found yourself drawn to him. He would come up to you in town and chat, leaning against a market stall or the railing of the porch to meet your eyes. You enjoyed spending time with him and found yourself missing him when he wasn't near you.

When he kissed you for the first time it was raining again, but this time you were in town, ducking under a roof in an alleyway. You were both laughing, and you'd accidentally fallen into him, holding onto his arms to steady yourself. He held onto you tight, looking into your eyes and the next thing you knew his lips were on yours, cool from the rainwater. You kissed him back, wrapping your arms around his neck and standing on your tiptoes to reach him.

From that point on, the two of you were inseparable. You fell hard and fast for him, jumping into his arms like he was a lake on a hot day. He adored you, was with you at every possible moment.

It was such a whirlwind, and you loved every second. You quickly learned what it meant to be Billy's girl, and it was a smooth river of flowing love and attention and time. He took you for walks in the clearing where you'd met and let you sit in his lap while you braided daisies together. He'd sneak you onto the rooftop of his house and show you his favorite stars, telling you all their names. Especially concerned with your safety, he escorted you everywhere, keeping an arm around you so everyone knew whose you were.

Billy would come wait for you at the bar in the tail ends of your shifts, drinking a whiskey and watching for wandering eyes. His stepfather was still a frequent visitor, and Billy didn't like you around him at all.

It was true that Antrim's eyes had a tendency to linger, as did his hands, but he seemed to keep to himself when Billy was around.

You didn't know much of what had happened between them, only that Antrim had done some horrible things in the city from which they'd come. You knew it was a sensitive topic, so you didn't ask many questions.

One night, when you were finishing cleaning up at the bar, you noticed Antrim still at the table he'd occupied all evening. Everyone else had cleared out, but he nursed a glass of whiskey, staring at the wood of the table.

You approached him, drying off another glass as you did. "We're just about closed, Mr. Antrim. Can I pour you one more?"

He looked up at you, eyes catching on parts of you that you'd rather they didn't. "That's alright darlin'. I'd best be headin' out." There was a look in his eyes that you didn't like, and you took one step back.

"Okay, I'll-"

Suddenly he stood up, grabbing your arm. You could smell the alcohol on his breath as you tried to wriggle away. He chuckled lowly. "You're real pretty, y'know that?"

"Mr. Antrim-" you tried, but he held firmer, and the glass slipped from your hand and shattered at your feet.

"Oh ya look even sweeter up close," he whispered, and your breathing quickened, your eyes wide with fear. One of his hands came to your waist, trailing upward to your chest. "Bet if I could touch-"

"Antrim."

Both of you looked up and saw Billy at the door, arms folded. Antrim didn't let go of you. "Kid."

Coming closer, Billy gave him a warning look. "Let go of 'er."

"Aw you're not gonna kick my ass over this little thing," Antrim scoffed. Billy got close to him, grabbing hold of his arm that was holding yours.

"I said let go." His words were glaringly threatening. When Antrim still didn't loosen his grip, Billy shoved his arm off you, sending the drunk man stumbling a few paces backward.

Billy's boots crunched over the broken glass on the floor as he brought you close to him, putting his hand on the back of your head and bringing your face to his shoulder. "Out."

You heard the sound of footsteps scurrying out, and Billy heaved a sigh of relief. He rubbed your back, his big hand on your head making you feel safe. "M' baby," he murmured, hugging you tight to him. "You okay? He didn't hurt ya?"

Shaking your head, you drew back to look at him. He rested his palms on your cheeks and you held his wrists. "I'm sorry, 'm so sorry this happened to you. He's rotten, ain't ever leavin' ya alone here 'gain."

"Billy," you were a little shaky from the experience and he recognized that, drawing you back into his arms and kissing your head, whispering sweet things into your hair.

He led you to his bed for the first time that night, not for anything sexual, but for protection, assuring you Antrim wouldn't come home. And even if he did, he'd have Billy to deal with. You snuck past Joe, reaching into your pocket for a piece of candy to leave on his pillow by his head.

Billy smiled at the gesture and reached out his hands for you, holding you like a teddy bear between his arms. You settled your head on his chest since he only had one pillow, and besides, you liked better here anyways.

It became a bit of a habit after that- coming to his bed after work for that feeling of safety that you had only ever found in his arms. You loved him for wanting you to feel that way. Kathleen never said a word about it when she saw you leave in the morning, only smiling at you in her sweet way.

Rarely did you come across Antrim in their home, and when you did you were always under Billy's arm, feeling like he was a shield. The nights you spent with him were always peaceful, and you treasured them dearly.

One night, after collapsing into him after a longer shift, you woke up in the still, eerie hours of the morning and Billy wasn't there. Looking up, you realized it was raining, the steady sound making you smile.

You waited a few minutes, but Billy didn't come back. Standing up and stretching, you smoothed your dress and made your way out to see if he was in the kitchen. No Billy.

Once you were there though, you could hear a distinct, violent sound coming from outside, easier to hear over the rain now that you were closer to it. Hesitantly curious, you opened the door, and immediately, you were frozen.

Billy was throwing a punch at Antrim, sending the man tumbling to the muddy ground. He shouted something and Billy did too, their words impossible to make out through the rain.

But before you could go back inside, Billy turned around and saw you, his face falling. He just stood there, in the pouring rain for a moment, staring at you and gaging your reaction.

Finally you willed yourself to move, and you came forward to him, not caring that your clothes were getting soaked. Reminded of the first time you met, you let the memory make this scene a little softer.

You reached for his knuckles and saw how bloody they were, the rainwater washing some of it off. Without saying a word, you led him by the hand back inside, and he followed.

Grabbing a rag from the sink, you pressed it to his hands, one at a time. The blood stained your hands, but you didn't care, your eyes never leaving him. He seemed ashamed, and he avoided your gaze the entire time you were cleaning him up.

Putting the rag down, you took both his hands in yours, squeezing them. "Billy," you started softly. "What happened?"

He exhaled softly, still not looking at you. "'S not for you to know, baby."

"Billy," you repeated, leaning in closer. Your words were unmoving, intentional in their purpose.

Squeezing your hands back, he closed his eyes as he spoke. "He was tryna come back in. Said some things I won't repeat."

"About what?" you pressed.

Billy met your eyes. "'bout you, sweetheart. He hit me where he knew it'd get me."

You inhaled sharply, searching his eyes. "You..."

"Hey," Billy squeezed your hands again, sensing your distress. "I get into it with Antrim all the time. Ain't no big deal."

Shaking your head, you found yourself on the verge of tears. "Your hands were bleeding..."

"Alright, alright," Billy removed his hands from yours and brought them to your waist instead, pulling you into his lap, your back against his chest. One of your legs was situated between his knees, and the tiny gesture comforted you. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his arms around your middle. The both of you were still wet from the rain but neither of you cared.

"Needed ya to be nice 'n close when I told ya this," he murmured, kissing your shoulder and lightly rocking you back and forth. "Angel...there ain't nothin' I wouldn't do to keep ya safe. You're my girl. That means you've got me no matter what. Understand?"

You nodded, leaning sideways so you could rest your head on his shoulder. Instantly you knew the gravity of what his love for you meant. Here was a man who loved you enough to protect you.

The realization only made you love him more, and you told him so when the two of you were cuddled back up in bed that morning, the sunrise starting to peek through the window.

"I love you," you breathed against his chest, your affection swelling from your heart and pouring out your mouth like sunshine.

He held your head to him and kissed your hair. "I love you, sweetheart. You're safe with me. I promise."

And as dawn stretched its rosy fingers into the sky, the way you loved him was smooth and soft like the rain that had brought you two together, only leaving joy in its wake. The steady flow of his love was something you could hold onto, something safe and solid, always found when you were nestled in his arms.

come talk about billy here!

[ninjatrashpanda]

Little Man

Written for @bucktommywinterfest

Prompt: accidental baby acquisition/bucktommy dads

Rated: G

Tags: established relationship, babies, artistic license foster system

Read on AO3 here.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“This is firefighter pilot Thomas Kinard, Station 217. We’ve got a Safe Haven Baby.”

👶🏻🍼👶🏻🍼👶🏻

“LAFD, we’re here to help!” Chimney’s voice rang through the bay the moment the 118’s ambulance had killed its engine. Tommy, who had settled down back in the community area with the baby, couldn’t help but roll his eyes with a fond smile as he got up to meet them. Some things truly never changed. “You know, it’s really weird to get sent to a different fire station. Where is everyone?”

“Out on a call,” Tommy answered, waving Chim and Hen over, the small bundle, wrapped in a pale blue, clearly hospital issued blanket, pressed to his chest. “Mass pileup on the interstate, they’ve been gone for the last three hours.”

The paramedics stopped for a second and simply stared at Tommy and the baby cradled in his arms before sharing a quick glance. Tommy held himself back from rolling his eyes at them. He hated when they did their stupid telepathy we-read-each-other’s-minds thing. It somehow always ended with either a truly horrific diagnosis or him as the butt end of whatever joke they were cooking up.

“And you’ve just been here alone with this one this whole time?” Hen asked, dropping her bag onto the dining table as soon as she entered the backroom, immediately digging around in it.

Tommy shrugged, adjusting his hold on Little Man, as he’d started calling him, who grabbed onto his uniform shirt in response. Almost instinctively, Tommy pulled him closer to his chest in the process. “Wasn’t much of a choice. I’m Man Behind today, and around half an hour ago, the baby box started screaming.”

Chimney’s eyebrow met his hairline. He shared another suspicious look with Hen, one that Tommy somehow liked even less than the one before. “So, how is the little stinker?” Chim asked, turning back to him with a grin that was decidedly not real. He knew what Howard Han’s grins looked like, and that was not it. “You two best buds yet, or what?”

“Oh, he wishes!” Tommy scoffed playfully, deciding to ignore the not-at-all-convincing expression, the corners of his mouth ticking upward as he looked down at Little Man, rocking him gently. “He’s actually eternally on my craplist because he peed on me when I changed him and now my shirt smells like piss.” He started tickling Little Man’s belly, drawing out a few small grunts that could almost be mistaken for a laugh if you were feeling generous, his cheeks growing even rosier than his already pink skin. “You’re a little pee machine, huh?”

Hen’s expression softened, though there was something in her eyes that Tommy couldn’t quite place. She hesitated for a moment before finally pulling a stethoscope out of her bag. “Alright, baby boy,” she said, reaching for the baby. “Time to see how you really are.”

Almost instinctively, Tommy took a step back, pulling Little Man closer. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Can you do it while I hold him?”

Hen and Chimney both froze for a split second before exchanging yet another one of their silent conversations. Tommy immediately regretted speaking. He didn’t know why, but there was something about the idea of handing over the baby that made his chest tighten just a little too much. He could feel the tiny fingers gripping his uniform a little harder, as if Little Man could sense his unease.

“Tommy…” Hen’s voice was careful, measured, but her eyes were scanning him just as much as they were assessing the baby. “I need to check him properly. It’s not that I don’t trust you—it’s just that I need full access, and that’s going to be easier if we put him on the table.”

Tommy sighed, glancing down at Little Man’s face. He was wide-eyed, blinking up at him like he was waiting to see what would happen next. His tiny fist still had a death grip on the fabric of Tommy’s shirt.

It was stupid, really. Hen and Chim had to see if Little Man was sick or had any kind of injuries, that was the whole entire point of them even coming here. But the thought of letting go, even just for a moment, made his stomach twist. His grip on Little Man tightened, his fingers refusing to let go.

Chimney cleared his throat. “Hey, man. We’re not taking him away from you. Hen just needs to check him out, make sure he’s alright. You do want him to be alright, don’t you?”

Tommy’s jaw worked for a moment, like he was chewing over a thousand words but unsure which one to spit out. His arms were locked around the baby, protective in a way that made both Hen and Chimney pause. Not because they didn’t understand, but because they did.

Of course he wanted the kid to be okay. That wasn’t even a question.

He looked back down at Little Man—those big, unblinking, deep brown eyes, the way his tiny fingers were still clenched in his shirt like it was the only solid thing in the world. Maybe it was, for now.

Finally, Tommy sighed again. Longer this time. He bent slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of the baby’s head before murmuring, “Alright, alright, I hear you. Just don’t go swapping him out for another one while I’m not looking.”

Hen smiled gently, but didn’t make a joke. Didn’t even try. She just nodded and motioned toward the dining table, which Tommy reluctantly walked to, still holding Little Man like he was made of glass.

The second Tommy set him down on the blanket Hen had spread over the table, the baby whimpered, reaching out with those same grabbing hands. Tommy reflexively touched one, offering a finger to hold onto. Little Man latched on instantly, calming just a little.

Chim stayed nearby, a soft presence just over Hen’s shoulder while she worked. Her hands were confident and careful, checking pulse, respiration, pupils. She rolled back the blanket to inspect the baby’s body, her face still and unreadable the whole time.

Tommy kept his eyes trained on her movements, and something about how tense his posture stayed made Chimney nudge him lightly with an elbow.

“You okay, man?” Chim said, voice low.

“I’m fine,” Tommy said automatically. Then, realizing how robotic it sounded, added, “Just... I dunno. He’s been with me for the last half hour. Feels weird just... standing over here now.”

Hen looked up briefly at that, locking eyes with Chim for another one of their split-second exchanges. This one seemed less diagnostic and more... personal.

Hen finished her exam and gently pulled the blanket back up. “He’s alright,” she said, smoothing it down with a touch that bordered on maternal. “Vitals are solid. A little dehydrated, maybe, but nothing alarming. He was probably born sometime in the last day or two.”

Chim let out a low breath. “No injuries, no bruising?”

Hen shook her head. “Clean. Someone cared enough to drop him off safely. That’s something.”

Tommy was already scooping Little Man back up, the second she gave the okay. The baby curled into his chest again like that’s where he belonged. And maybe, just maybe, he did. For now.

Hen was packing up her bag when she glanced at Tommy again, this time with something quieter in her expression. “You good if we call in social services? That’s protocol with Safe Haven babies—they’ll send someone over to take custody until a foster placement is found.”

Tommy stiffened. His arms unconsciously pulled Little Man in tighter. “Yeah. I mean... yeah, of course.”

But he didn’t look at either of them when he said it.

Chim leaned against the edge of the table, watching him with a level of gentleness Tommy wasn’t sure how to deal with. “You thinking about keeping him?”

Tommy blinked, startled. “What? No. No, I—I wouldn’t even—”

“You wouldn’t be the first firefighter who’s thought about it,” Hen said quietly, zipping her bag closed. “You’re not the first one to get attached, either.”

Tommy opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked down at Little Man, at those tiny lashes and the soft puff of breath against his chest. The room was warm, still, and for a second it felt like nothing else existed outside this strange, still moment.

“I just don’t like the idea of him going to some stranger,” Tommy said finally, his voice rough. “He was crying when I found him. Screaming. Then the second I picked him up, he stopped. Just... stopped.”

Hen walked over, rested a hand lightly on his arm. “I get it. Karen and I have fostered enough kids over the years for me to know how easy it is to get attached.”

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He just looked down at Little Man again, brushing his thumb along the soft edge of his cheek, watching how the tiny face scrunched up and then relaxed like he was dreaming something peaceful. The thought of handing him off to some well-meaning stranger in a clean button-up shirt who’d read his name off a clipboard made his stomach twist all over again.

Hen didn’t push. Neither did Chim. For all their teasing and telepathy, they both knew when to shut up and let someone sit in it for a while.

After a long beat, Tommy finally said, “What would Evan and I have to do to get started?”

👶🏻🍼👶🏻🍼👶🏻

“You want to adopt a baby?”

“Not adopt!” Tommy said, following Buck out of the kitchen into their living room. “Foster!”

“With Safe Haven babies that’s pretty much the same thing!”

“We said we wanted kids someday, right?”

“Keyphrase ‘someday!’” Buck exclaimed, putting the bowl of popcorn down on the coffee table with a bit more force than was necessary. He flinched, cursing himself out before turning around to face Tommy, who carried their beers. This was not how Buck had imagined their movie night. “Not a month after you move into my house! What makes you think we’re anywhere near that stage?”

“Because life never goes according to plan, Evan,” Tommy replied, voice gentle but firm as he handed Buck his beer. He watched Buck closely, waiting for the tense lines of his shoulders to soften, but Buck remained stiff, uncertainty etched in his eyes. Tommy sighed and set his own beer down untouched. “Listen, I didn’t wake up today expecting this either. But you should have seen him, Evan. Tiny and helpless, screaming his little lungs out until I picked him up. He just…trusted me. Immediately.”

Buck groaned softly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Of course he did, Tommy. Everyone trusts you. Kids, adults, dogs. Hell, Chief Simpson trusts you implicitly, and you stole a chopper once!”

Tommy cracked a small smile, stepping closer to his partner. “Look, I get it. It’s sudden, it’s crazy, and honestly, it scares the hell out of me too. But I can’t shake this feeling, Evan. That little boy needs us right now. He deserves someone who wants him, not someone who just checks him off a list on a clipboard.”

Buck’s expression softened at that, but worry still lingered in his eyes. “I understand where you’re coming from, Tommy. I really do. But have considered the logistics of all of this? I mean, we need a crib-”

“Hen says she and Karen still have Denny’s old one.”

“-and—and clothes-”

“Chim said we can have the ones Kevin’s grown out of. He and Maddie have a lot.”

“-and we’re both First Responders,” Buck finished with an exasperated sigh, letting himself fall down on the couch. “We both work 24- and 48-hour shifts, are they even gonna clear us?”

“I’ll quit my job and be a stay-at-home-dad.”

Buck’s eyes widened. He stared up at Tommy like he’d just sprouted a second head, his mouth hanging open. “You what?”

“I’m not saying I want to.” Tommy shrugged, clearly trying to play it cool, though his eyes betrayed how nervous he was. “But I would, if it came down to it. If that’s what it takes.”

Blinking, Buck opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my entire life, Evan.”

There was a long silence. The only sound in the room was the low hum of the fridge and the muted rustle of the wind outside their windows. Tommy didn’t move. He was waiting for Buck to respond, but Buck wasn’t sure how to.

Because this was huge, right? Tommy was serious serious about this baby, far more than Buck had anticipated. He sank deeper into the couch, the weight of everything settling onto his chest like the baby himself had curled up there. He rubbed at his temple, heart pounding a little faster than he’d like to admit. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. They were supposed to be eating popcorn, watching one of Tommy’s rom-coms, maybe falling asleep halfway through with Tommy’s head on his shoulder. Not talking about cribs and foster care and quitting jobs.

He looked up at Tommy—earnest, steady Tommy, with that frustratingly calm expression that only surfaced when he’d already made up his mind. And Buck knew that face. Had seen it in arguments on the fire line, during wild rescues, hell, even the day Tommy showed up at his door with a duffel bag and that crooked half-smile, asking if he was serious about them trying this “living together” thing so soon after getting back together.

Now, Tommy looked the same. Steady. Sure.

And that terrified the hell out of Buck.

“You know,” he said eventually, looking at Tommy again. “I’m supposed to be the impulsive one in this relationship.”

Tommy chuckled, just once. “Yeah, well. I guess spending enough time around you rubbed off on me.”

Buck gave a tight smile, but there was still a war behind his eyes. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, twirling the cool bottle slowly between his palms. “Tommy… this isn’t like adopting a dog or a cat or something. This is a baby. A real-life, tiny human who will depend on us for everything.”

“I know,” Tommy said quietly. “Believe me, I know.”

Buck let out a breath, loud and shaky. “And what if it doesn’t work out? What if we get attached and then he gets taken away? Or we mess him up somehow?”

Tommy moved to sit beside him on the couch, not too close, not trying to crowd him, but just enough to grab his hand and squeeze it tight. “Then we’ll handle it. Together. We learned how to do that, right?”

Buck glanced at him, feeling the warmth of Tommy’s palm in his. He looked up into his eyes, seeing the familiar crinkles of Tommy’s signature smile around them. Somehow, they, along with the blue shine of his irises, were the most convincing thing in the universe.

“You really think we could do this?”

“I think,” Tommy said, voice soft but sure, squeezing Buck’s hand ever tighter, “we already are.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Buck stared down at the floor, processing, while Tommy waited, patient as always. It was one of the things Buck had admired about him from the start—that unwavering calm, even when everything felt like it was crashing down. He hated how much it could piss him off, sometimes. But mostly, he just needed it. Especially now.

“You’re gonna be one of those annoying PTA dads, aren’t you?”

Tommy’s smile widened into a grin, his eyes glinting teasingly. “Absolutely. Color-coordinated binders and all. I learned from the best in that regard.”

Buck couldn’t help the giggle that escaped him. What an ass. “Using my own powers against me? Diabolical!”

Tommy, on the other hand, didn’t say anything anymore. He just kept smiling, and Buck knew exactly why. He’d seen the shift. The crack in his resistance. He didn’t push, just sat there quietly until Buck opened his mouth again.

“Okay,” he said, his shoulders somehow feeling lighter than they had all afternoon. “Okay. I…I want to meet him first before we make a decision, but…okay. Let’s look into it.”

Buck could hardly brace himself before Tommy pulled him into a bone crushing hug.

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“You realize this is highly unconventional, I hope?” Diedra asked with a sigh, leading Tommy and Buck down the hall of the receiving center. “Not to mention illegal. I’m risking my entire career here.”

Tommy didn’t flinch. “We understand that. And we appreciate it!” he nodded, always a step behind her. He was basically vibrating and Buck wondered just what kind of magical powers that baby held to get him like that. “We just want a chance to see if this is something that could work—for all of us.”

Diedra stopped in front of a door and turned to face them, arms crossed, a weariness in her posture that only came from too many years navigating the system. “You’re not licensed. You haven’t even completed the background checks. There are protocols in place for a reason.”

Buck, who had been quiet since they’d stepped into the building, took a step forward. “We’re not trying to cut corners. We’ll do everything by the book. Training, home inspections, fingerprints if you want them. Whatever we need to. I just want a chance to meet him before we make a decision.”

Fixing them with a sceptical look, her arms crossed in front of her chest, Diedra let out a sigh. “Hen and Karen said you’re a couple? Living together?”

“Yes.”

Buck shot Tommy a quick glance. The answer had been short and to the point, and very distinctly failed to mention that them living together was a more recent thing. He wasn’t sure if Tommy actually thought that they could keep that part a secret for long or not, but for now, he decided to play along.

Diedra looked between the two men for a long moment, her gaze lingering on Buck, who looked like he was trying very hard not to bounce out of his skin. Finally, she sighed again, this time heavier. “Five minutes. That’s all I can give you right now. And if anyone asks, I never saw you.”

“Thank you.” Tommy said, grabbing Diedra’s hand and clutching it between his own. “Seriously. I can’t even begin to tell you how much this means to us.”

Diedra gave a tight smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t thank me until I don’t get fired over this.” Then, turning sharply on her heel, she swiped her badge over the reader and pushed open the heavy door.

The nursery was quiet. Dim lighting cast soft golden halos across pale green walls, and a mobile of stars and moons turned lazily above a crib near the far wall. The space was small, efficient, the kind of room designed for neutrality. It was neither warm, nor cold. Not too comforting, and not too sterile. It was built to feel temporary. Transitory. Not meant to be remembered.

That alone almost made Buck make up his mind. No child should be in a room like this, especially not a baby.

Tommy stepped forward first, his breath hitching the moment he spotted the small bundle lying in the crib. He didn’t say a word, just moved, like gravity pulled him forward. Buck stayed a step behind, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the tiny figure that looked even smaller than he had imagined.

Little Man was awake, his eyes drifting toward the sound of the door, dark and curious. There was no wailing, no panic. Just that soft, quiet alertness Tommy had mentioned. As Tommy approached, Little Man blinked up at him and let out a tiny grunt, one that almost made Buck’s heart melt.

Tommy’s face lit up, as if someone had ignited a candle behind his eyes. “Hi, buddy. Remember me?” He whispered, leaning over the crib.

Little Man’s eyes widened with a small noise, his tiny fists flailing around, almost as if he recognized the voice. Tommy reached in carefully gathering the baby in his arms. And, just like he had told Buck two days ago, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Little Man curled against his chest, his little hand instantly grabbing Tommy’s shirt again.

Watching them, Buck felt something unexpected twist in his gut.

He was used to seeing Tommy with kids—Jee and Kevin, mostly—but this was different. Tommy wasn’t just good with this baby; he fit. Like some missing piece of him had clicked into place the moment he held that bundle. And God help him, Buck felt the shift. He felt it happen.

Tommy turned back toward him, smile soft, eyes wet. “Evan,” he said, voice low, reverent. “Say hi.”

Buck stepped forward, slower than he meant to, trying to suppress the million thoughts racing through his brain. He stood beside Tommy, his eyes flicking between his Partner and the baby tucked snug against his chest.

“Hey there,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “You’re a cuddly little guy, huh?”

As if on cue, Little Man made a soft noise and smacked a tiny fist into Tommy’s collarbone. “He gets violent when he’s hungry,” he chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye.

Buck let out a shaky breath. Tommy was already in too deep, it seemed, but it wasn’t like he could fault him for that. He had only just met Little Man and was already falling under his spell just as much. Biting his lip, he reached out, hesitating just for a moment, then slowly offered a finger. The baby’s free hand latched on almost instantly, warm and impossibly small, barely big enough to fully grasp what Buck was offering.

And that was it. That tiny grip was all it took.

The dam cracked.

Something Buck hadn’t realized he’d been holding inside released, flooding his chest with something big and unfamiliar. Fear, sure. Uncertainty, absolutely. But also awe. Connection. That unshakable feeling that this mattered.

“He’s perfect.”

“I know.”

They stayed like that for seemingly hours, yet only seconds. The warmth of Little Man’s hand around his finger had Buck almost weep, and the ever widening grin on Tommy’s face he could see out of the corners of his eyes told him that he knew how gone on this baby he had gotten in just the two seconds (that somehow were also two hours) they’d been here.

“Time’s up.”

Tommy didn’t flinch at Diedra’s voice, though Buck could see his face falling slightly. He held Little Man for a moment longer, pressing a kiss to his forehead before slowly, carefully, tucking him back into the crib. His hand lingered just a second too long on the baby’s blanket, like letting go physically hurt.

And it apparently wasn’t just Tommy and Buck who felt that way. The moment Tommy’s hand left him, Little Man’s face began to scrunch up, a tiny sob escaping him that quickly became a full blown wail.

Tommy’s face crumpled with it, like each of those sobs was a tug on some thread knotted deep inside his chest. He took a half-step forward, then stopped himself with visible effort, hands fisted at his sides.

Buck stood frozen too, sucking in a, looking from the crib to Tommy, then to Diedra. “Can’t we just—?”

“No,” she said gently but firmly, already reaching past them to scoop Little Man up. “You’re not cleared. I shouldn’t have let you in at all.”

The baby’s cries echoed through the quiet room like a siren, piercing and frantic. His arms flailed in the air like he was reaching for something—or someone—he couldn’t see anymore.

Tommy turned away, rubbing the back of his neck with a shaking hand. Buck could see his body tensing, every muscle going stiff at once, every instinct in Tommy’s head screaming to reach back in and calm the baby down, to fix this.

“I’ll walk you out,” Diedra offered, her voice tight, as she cradled the baby against her shoulder. He kept crying, his sobs intersected by hiccups.

Tommy didn’t reply, just nodded, jaw clenched. Buck followed him in silence as they walked down the sterile corridor again, footsteps swallowed by the carpeted floor. When they reached the double doors to the exit, Diedra hesitated.

“You two are serious?” she asked softly, bouncing the baby a little in her arms. He wasn’t calming down.

Tommy turned back to her, his eyes a little red-rimmed now but locked with hers, steady as ever. “Dead serious.”

“And you’re willing to go through the process? The classes, the interviews, the paperwork, the wait?”

“Yes.”

Buck startled a little at the immediacy of his own voice, surprised it came from his mouth. But he meant it. Diedra looked between them again, her arms still rocking the now-fussy baby.

“If you are,” she said finally, “then don’t waste time. I’ll be over on Monday for the home inspection. Have the forms and letters of recommendation ready by then. The Wilsons, at least, but the more the better.”

Tommy nodded, swallowing hard as he met Diedra’s gaze. “We’ll be ready.”

Diedra gave a short nod of acknowledgment, then glanced down at the still-crying baby in her arms. “He’s not going to forget you, you know,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Babies this young… they remember safety. Warmth. A voice. He imprinted on you.” She looked up again, her expression softer this time. “Don’t make him wait too long.”

With that, the door clicked shut behind her.

For a long moment, Tommy and Buck stood in the chill of the early evening, the sun low and golden, casting long shadows across the parking lot. Buck’s shoulders were slumped, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. Tommy exhaled shakily, turning his face up to the sky as if looking for an answer in the clouds.

“I wasn’t ready to leave him,” he said finally, a slight tremor to his voice.

“I know,” Buck murmured. He reached over, grabbing his hand and intertwining their fingers. “I wasn’t either.”

Tommy didn’t say anything, only gave Buck’s hand a gentle squeeze. For reassurance most likely.

They stood there until the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in dusky orange and purple hues. Neither of them moved until Buck finally cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, trying for casual and failing, “letters of recommendation. You think Bobby’ll write one without grilling us into next week?”

A short laugh escaped Tommy at that. “He’ll write three. And you know Eddie will, too.”

“Hen and Karen already said we could count on them.”

“And Chim and Maddie.” Tommy gave a small smile. “We’ve got people.”

With a low hum, Buck studied him for a few seconds. “You still really willing to quit your job if that’s what it takes?”

Tommy’s jaw ticked, and for a second, Buck thought he might backtrack. But then he exhaled deeply. “Yeah. I love what I do, Evan. But that baby…” His voice faltered. “I’d give it up in a heartbeat if it meant that we get to love him.”

His breath hitching, Buck swallowed hard, his heart swelling and aching at once. Yeah, Tommy was serious about this. Far more serious than Buck had actually anticipated. And the worst part was, Buck understood. One look at Little Man had been all it took for him to lose all sense of reason, apparently.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said eventually. “We always do.”

Tommy finally looked at him again, their eyes locking. “This isn’t just me jumping the gun and pulling you into something, right? You’re just as in as I am?”

Buck stepped closer, both hands cupping Tommy’s face, thumbs brushing away the unshed tears at the corners of his eyes before pulling him in for a short kiss.

“I’m just as in as you,” he confirmed firmly after pulling away. “We’re a team. If we’re doing this…” He paused. “We’re doing it together.”

Tommy leaned into the touch, eyes closing for a moment as if grounding himself in that promise. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Buck echoed.

👶🏻🍼👶🏻🍼👶🏻

Chimney loved Hen. He really did. She was his best friend, his sister in all but blood, his work partner, his ride-or-die.

But also, he hated her.

“Hen, please, the banner is fine!”

“Don’t you dare let go of it, Han!” Hen called back up, her hands on her hips. “Buck and Tommy are about to bring their first baby through that door, and if this banner isn’t 100%, absolutely straight by then, so help me!”

“Uh, Buck and Tommy aren’t straight, though,” Ravi, who stood on the ladder opposite Chim’s, said, pleading eyes looking down at Hen. “Maybe the banner shouldn’t be either?”

Hen stopped in her tracks, her eyes flicking up toward Ravi like she was trying to decide whether to laugh or throttle him. Chim could see the exact moment her lips twitched. “Ravi,” she said, voice painfully patient, “if I didn’t like you so much, I’d make you redo the entire balloon arch for that joke.”

Chim snorted, wobbling a little on the ladder. “He’s not wrong, though.”

“Focus, you two!” Hen barked, but she was smiling now, even as she moved to fluff one of the paper streamers hanging from the awning above the patio. “We only get one shot at a first welcome home, and I am not letting those two walk into anything less than perfection.”

From his perch, Chim glanced around Buck and Tommy’s backyard and had to admit it. Hen had outdone herself. Again.

There were balloons and banners, baby blue and soft yellow, the kind that looked like they’d been pulled straight from Pinterest. The “Welcome Home, Little Man!” banner atop a wooden arch adorned with more balloons was the centerpiece, flanked by stars and moons that Ravi had apparently painstakingly hand-cut the night before. The table was stacked with finger food and cupcakes, (prepared by Bobby for most of the previous night) and the massive diaper cake in the center was wrapped in cellophane and adorned with a little stuffed Dalmatian wearing a toy fire helmet.

“Should’ve made this a potluck,” Chim muttered as he adjusted the banner one last time. “You know Maddie’s gonna roast me for not bringing the good egg rolls.”

“She’d roast you either way,” Hen replied smoothly.

“Okay, fair.”

“Guys,” Eddie’s voice called from the garage, “they just pulled up!”

Hen immediately sprang into action like she was commanding a scene on a multi-car pileup. “Places, people!” she snapped, sweeping a streamer out of Chim’s hands. “I want everyone where they’re meant to be now!”

Chim scrambled off the ladder while Ravi nearly tripped coming down his own. From somewhere behind the grill, Bobby emerged with a dish towel still slung over his shoulder. “Where’s the kids?” he asked, brushing his hands off on his apron.

“Inside,” Eddie called back. “Karen’s got ’em watching cartoons so they don’t blow the surprise.”

“You mean like we’re in a sitcom?” Ravi asked as he quickly ducked under the archway. “Does this count as a surprise party if they literally know we’re here?”

Hen didn’t bother answering. Chim saw her fluffing a final decoration as he hurried to his spot, eyes sweeping the yard like her life depended on it. And then—

The sound of tires crunching gravel.

Everyone froze.

The gate to the side yard swung open.

And then Buck appeared first, stepping into the backyard with a wide-eyed, slightly overwhelmed expression that turned into a startled laugh as everyone shouted “Welcome home!”

Behind him, Tommy stepped through holding the baby carrier like it was made of glass, Little Man bundled inside in a soft blue blanket, very much not hospital issued this time, Chim noted. Tommy’s expression went soft the second he saw the banner.

“Oh my god,” Buck muttered, blinking rapidly. “Hen, did you—?”

“Of course I did,” Hen said smugly, already sweeping in for a hug. “You didn’t think I’d let your first foster placement come home without at least a themed party, did you?”

Tommy looked down at the carrier and then up at everyone, their whole chaotic, ridiculous fire family gathered on the lawn with streamers and cupcakes, and Chimney could see something in him just... settle. The tension in Tommy’s body that Chim knew hadn’t left ever since Little Man had first shown up at the 217 seemed to evaporate.

The baby stirred in his carrier at the noise, blinking his sleepy eyes as the sunlight hit his face. Buck knelt beside him instantly, fingers brushing his tiny hand. “Hey, buddy,” he murmured, a sing-songy quality to his voice, “you’re home.”

Chim immediately jogged over and peeked over Buck’s shoulder. “Okay, let me see this little stinkbug. I missed him, let me tell you!”

“Course you did,” Tommy laughed, stepping aside so Hen and Chim could get a closer look. The baby blinked up at them, nose wrinkling slightly. “He tends to have that effect on people.”

“Awww, look at him,” Chim cooed. Then, his eyes narrowed. “Great, I think he’s already judging me.”

“Smart kid.” Hen smirked, wiggling their eyebrows at him. Chim swatted her shoulder. She only laughed at him before turning back to Buck and Tommy. “So, is the parent panic setting in yet?”

Buck looked up from where he was crouched beside the carrier, then over at Hen with a look that was half amusement, half panic and all exhaustion. “Hen, the panic set in before we even left the receiving center.”

Tommy snorted, shifting a diaper bag higher on his shoulder. “Yeah, somewhere between ‘Sign here’ and ‘Here’s his car seat, don’t kill him,’ I think Evan went through all five stages of grief.”

“Hey,” Buck protested, but it didn’t have much heat behind it. He leaned down again and adjusted the edge of the baby’s blanket, tucking it a little closer under Little Man’s chin. “At least I didn’t try to google how many diapers a newborn needs while driving.”

“You were driving!” Tommy shot back, one of his eyebrows flying up to his hairline. “I was in the passenger seat!”

“Google still judged you.”

“Google always judges me.”

Hen just shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she glanced between them. “You two are going to be the most insufferable parents on the planet, aren’t you?”

Buck stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans. “That depends. Have we reached the part where we start referring to ourselves as ‘Dada’ and ‘Papa’ yet?”

Tommy raised a brow. “And which one of us is which?”

“Oh, I know you think you’re Dada,” Buck replied, already grinning, “but we’re gonna have to arm wrestle over that.”

“God help this child,” Chim muttered under his breath, though he was smiling too, peeking down into the carrier again. “You’ve got no idea what you’re in for, kiddo. Those two are craaaazy.”

Behind them, Karen had wrangled the kids out from inside, Kevin in her arms looking around the group with confused, but curious eyes. Jee-Yun and Mara came running down the lawn like tiny hurricanes, Jee colliding straight with Buck’s legs, clinging to him as she craned her head to look into the carrier.

“That’s my baby cousin?” she whispered, as if speaking too loud would somehow break him.

Buck nodded, slightly bending down to ruffle her hair. “Yeah, that’s him. Pretty small, huh?”

“He is,” Mara said, Jee looking on in awe. “Can we hold him?”

“Later. When he’s more used to so many people being around,” Tommy said, leaning down next to Buck, running a thumb over the baby’s cheek before gently taking him out of the carrier as everyone gathered around. He shot Buck a look, the other man giving a small nod in return, and then addressed the crowd. “Okay, so. You’ve probably already guessed that ‘Little Man’ isn’t gonna be his legal name.”

Tommy glanced around at the sea of expectant faces. Hen and Chim were elbowing each other to get a better look, Bobby, his arm around Athena, stood off to the side with that proud dad energy radiating off him, Eddie with Christopher tucked just beside him, Maddie cradling Kevin while Karen beamed from behind her. Even Ravi, who looked like he might start crying any second.

And right next to him, Buck stood close enough that their arms touched, eyes locked on the little baby in Tommy’s arms like the rest of the world had gone soft-focus.

“So…” Tommy said, bouncing the baby gently in his arms. “We would like you to formally meet Louis Oliver Buckley-Kinard.”

👶🏻🍼👶🏻🍼👶🏻

Later that night, when the backyard was quiet again and the last of the cupcakes had been packed into Tupperware, Tommy and Buck stood together in the nursery. The crib was finally assembled, (Bobby had insisted on doing it. ‘Just Grandpa things’ he’d called it, and if Buck had fought back tears at that, then that was fine!) the rocker in the corner sat waiting, and a small collection of toys handed down by their friends lined the low shelf against the wall.

Louis, freshly fed and changed, was asleep in Buck’s arms, impossibly small and soft and warm.

“You sure he’s not gonna hate the moon mobile?” Buck whispered, glancing up at the slow-turning decor.

“He’s a baby. He’s mostly just gonna stare at it and poop.”

“Fair enough.”

Tommy watched them for a long moment, then crossed the room to wrap an arm around Buck’s waist. “You’re doing good, Evan.”

“So are you,” Buck said, and didn’t hesitate before leaning in and pressing a kiss to Tommy’s temple.

They laid him down together. Little Man⸺Louis⸺didn’t fuss, didn’t stir, just sighed in his sleep and turned his head slightly to the side, already trusting that the world around him was safe, that his dads were there to protect him.

They stood there for a long time, watching him breathe.

“Welcome home, Louis,” Tommy whispered.

And Buck, barely louder than breath, echoed him. “Welcome home.”

[writingforstraykids]

Trouble Sleeping - Soft BinChan Headcanon

Pairing: BinChan

Word Count: 811

Summary: Chan can't find any rest and Changbin is his last hope. Binnie would do everything to grant his hyung some rest.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, angst, comfort

As requested by @chrizzztopherbang I hope you like it, my love. Find the smut version here.

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Chan has always had trouble sleeping. Nights are long, his mind a relentless whirl of responsibilities, melodies, and thoughts he can never quite shut off. He’s tried everything—warm baths, calming teas, even those sleep stories people swear by. But nothing seems to quiet the noise in his head. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on him.

Tonight is no different. The silence of the dorm is deafening, and the emptiness of his bed feels like a reminder of everything he carries alone. His chest tightens with the familiar ache of exhaustion, the kind that doesn't just settle in your bones but seeps into your soul. He’s so tired, but sleep continues to elude him.

It’s in this state, somewhere between desperation and defeat, that Chan finds himself standing outside Changbin’s door. He hesitates, feeling a pang of guilt. He’s the leader, the one who should be strong, dependable. But right now, all he wants is to feel like he’s not alone in this. He knocks softly, almost hoping Changbin won’t hear. But of course, Changbin does.

When Changbin opens the door, sleep still clinging to his eyes, he doesn't say a word. He takes one look at Chan and understands. Without a second thought, he reaches out, gently pulling Chan into his room, into his arms. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing off the outside world, and Chan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

The room is dimly lit, shadows softening the edges of everything. But in Changbin’s arms, everything feels sharp, real. His warmth is immediate, and Chan sinks into it, pressing his face against Changbin’s neck. He breathes in the familiar scent of him—something comforting and safe—and it soothes the frayed edges of his mind.

Changbin's hands slide up Chan’s back, his touch firm yet tender, grounding him. “You’re okay,” Changbin whispers, his voice low and intimate, meant only for Chan. “I’ve got you.”

The words unravel something deep within Chan. He wraps his arms tighter around Changbin, pulling him impossibly closer, as if by holding on like this, he can finally silence the chaos inside him. Changbin doesn’t resist. Instead, he guides them both to the bed, moving slowly, carefully, as if understanding that Chan is fragile in this moment.

They lie down, bodies pressed together in the quiet of the room. Chan feels every point of contact—the steady rise and fall of Changbin’s chest, the warmth of his skin, the way their legs tangle together naturally. Changbin’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Chan’s head, fingers threading through his hair in slow, soothing strokes.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone,” Changbin murmurs, his breath warm against Chan’s temple. “Not here. Not with me.”

The words hit Chan deeply, breaking through the barriers he’s built around himself. His breath catches, and for the first time in a long while, he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He’s always been strong, always been the one to hold everyone else together. But here, in Changbin’s arms, he feels like it’s okay to let go. Just for a moment.

The tears come slowly, silently, and Changbin feels them before he sees them. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he holds Chan tighter, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, his cheek, anywhere he can reach. His touch is gentle, reverent, each kiss a quiet promise that Chan isn’t alone, that he’s loved.

“It’s okay,” Changbin whispers again, his voice soft and sure. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Chan nods against Changbin’s chest, his tears soaking into the fabric of Changbin’s shirt, but he doesn’t care. He’s never felt more vulnerable, but in this moment, it feels right. It feels safe. He clings to Changbin, letting himself be held, letting himself be comforted.

They lie like that for a long time, the world outside forgotten. The steady rhythm of Changbin’s heartbeat beneath his ear slowly lulls Chan into a state of calm he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever. His breathing evens out, and for the first time in weeks, his mind isn’t racing with a million thoughts. It’s just him and Changbin, tangled up together in the quiet intimacy of the night.

As sleep finally begins to claim him, Chan realizes that this is what he’s been needing all along. Not just rest, but the feeling of being cared for, of being loved without conditions or expectations. In Changbin’s arms, he doesn’t have to be the leader, the strong one. He can just be Chan. And that’s enough.

With one last contented sigh, Chan drifts off to sleep, feeling safe, cherished, and more at peace than he’s been in a long time. And as he sleeps, Changbin holds him close, never letting go, watching over him with a quiet, unwavering devotion.

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[21fructidor]

Salut et fraternité !!

It is with the greatest delight that I, Fabre d'Églantine, grace this curious medium with my presence. Playwright, poet, politician—the titles bestowed upon me are as numerous as the admirers who weep at my tragedies and swoon at my prose! And yet, I am, above all, an artist of words, a craftsman of sentiment, a connoisseur of beauty, and—most importantly—a man who appreciates the finer things in life.

Should you wish to write to me, I shall indulge you as time and whim allow. Those with an appreciation for art, beauty, and eloquence shall find a most generous correspondent in me, and should you wish to discuss the virtues of the Révolution, I am, as ever, prepared to lend my voice to the cause of liberty, let us not pretend that politics is anything other than theater in its most tragic form.

However, let it be known dullards, bureaucrats, and unrepentant bores need not apply—I have spent enough time in the National Convention to recognize (and ignore) tedium when I see it.

Write to me, amuse me, flatter me— and in return, I shall provide you with insight, verse, and perhaps a fleeting taste of my genius.

Votre dévoué et inimitable,

Citizen Fabre d’Églantine

❛ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━･❪ 🎕 ❫ ･━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ❜

> I think I have a problem. > Yet another roleplay account has been unleashed upon you poor unfortunate souls! This time, I present to you Fabre d’Églantine, aka the guy who named the months of the Republican Calendar, wrote "Il pleut, il pleut, bergère," and definitely thought he was the most charming man in France (which I consider myself to be as well, even though I don't live in France.) > I try to be as true to form as possible with all of my portrayals, yet I am not free from fault (as difficult as that may be to believe)!! I often create these accounts with the object of learning as I go, so apologies if I get something wrong or miss something !! > This blog is ran on EST / GMT-5

Tag directory ──

✦ #Fabre et la scène — Fabre’s responses to letters and inquiries.

✦ #Correspondances révolutionnaires — Interactions with his fellow revolutionaries.

✦ #l'Autre Monde — Interactions with non-French Revolution historical figures.

+++ Coming soon!!