ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ2,050 words, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), brief somnophilia-> so noncon, dirty talk, dry humping, no penetration, roommate is a pervert, denial, flash cut smut, abrupt ending, etcʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ
𐙚18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𐙚
You've been living with him—your roommate—for six months now.
At first, the idea of sharing space with a stranger made your skin crawl. You told a friend, "What do I look like living with a man I don't know? I might as well go on Tinder and end up on the First 48." But rent kept creeping up, and even with all the overtime, minimum wage wasn't cutting it.
The first few weeks were fine. You laid down rules, locked your door, and barely spoke. You thought you could keep it that way.Then the little things started to show... your bear hybrid wasn't bad, though.
He's all hair, warmth, and awkwardness.
He smells like cedar and soap, sometimes like the beer he drinks when he's nervous. He moves slowly in the mornings, hair mussed and shirt riding up to show that thick, fuzzy stomach—soft-looking but solid underneath. Always in some thermal that's seen better days, stretched across his chest, curls of fur peeking over the neckline.
You've seen the little trail of hair below his belly button too—once, when he reached for something on the top shelf and his shirt lifted. A soft, dark line running down into his sweats. You looked away quickly, pretending you weren't staring, but it stayed in your head longer than you'd like to admit.
He had ways that felt like nature creeping in. How he'd sniff everything—laundry, takeout, even the damn air when you walked by, nostrils flaring like he was trying to catch your scent and hide it behind a cough. He slept in long stretches, deep and dead quiet, like hibernation was creeping in early.
When he tried to focus on a book his lower lip would catch slightly between his teeth, and his cup-shaped ears—nestled beneath black curls—couldn't stop shifting, rotating faintly to catch the distant sound of a passing car.
Not that bad, right?
He was just... pathetic in a soft, almost endearing way. The kind of man who apologizes for taking up space in his own home. Who still keeps his ex-wife as his lock screen months after she left him for another man, and pretends it's by accident. Who keeps getting fired for things like "poor communication" or "low initiative," but always gets rehired within days because people take one look at him and think he needs this.
You can tell when he's lonely. He hovers by the couch, pretends to clean things that don't need cleaning, hums to fill the silence.
You've caught him stealing glances, too. The kind that linger. The kind he's not proud of.
You can tell by the way he avoids eye contact, scratching at his beard like he's trying to rub the guilt off. There's a perverted streak in him—gentle, clumsy, half-hidden. When you borrowed his phone to order groceries, you saw the tab he forgot to close. Something filthy and kind of desperate, starring a woman who looked a bit like you. Familiar enough that you didn't bring it up. Just one more quiet thing between you.
Not even because he lingers by your door some nights, mumbling something about cooking or watching a movie together, voice all low and hopeful—like a kicked puppy trying not to whine too loud. Like now.
"Please," he says, eyes wide, voice rough. "I just want to spend time with you. You've been working a lot."
"Yeah, you should try it," you shoot back, meaning paying rent on time. You glance at his beard—thick, uneven, still a little neat from when you trimmed it last week.
You two have a deal. Three movies a month, or a few hours doing something together to make up for it. It's domestic, weirdly comforting. Easy to get used to.
He's good company, in his way. Kind. Respectful. Always trying too hard. Maybe a little too aware of you.
"Please," he says now, voice lower. "Just one more. I want to spend more time with you. You know I'll be sleeping through winter."
You sigh. It's hard to say no to him round, soft, needy in that big, lonely way. He's too easy to read, all his wanting sitting right there on the surface.
"Fine," you murmur, brushing a hand through his thick hair, feeling the warmth radiate off his scalp. His tail gave a single, strong, involuntary flick. A silent, needy confession. "But I'm picking the movie."
He smiles then—slow, uncertain. Something flickers in his eyes, part gratitude, part hunger.
You tell yourself it's fine. Just another movie night.
But you can already feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of his attention. That soft, heavy presence that fills the whole room—and keeps you just warm enough to stay.
-
The movie's halfway through.
You're on your stomach, cheek buried in a pillow, and a carton of lo mein balanced beside you. He's next to you in the same position—shoulder brushing yours, arm stretched out close enough that his fingers graze the blanket every time he shifts.
He was originally at the head of the bed, but that didn't last long.
You could feel his stare on your ass, the quiet ache of it. When you glanced over and teased him, told him if he was going to look at you like that he might as well feel you up too, he lowered his head, muttered an apology, and scooted closer like being near you might make up for it. You laughed, shaking your head. Knowing if he didn't move, your ass and flattened thighs would be starring in his nasty fantasies.
Now, he's still trying too hard to look casual, like he isn't fighting the pull of it. The warmth between you hums. You can smell him when he exhales—warm, a little like cedar and fried rice.
"Outlast" plays softly against the low hum of the heater. It's a tense show. Building shelters, finding food, sabotage, and lasting the longest for a cash prize. Halfway through, you mumble, "I wouldn't survive that. I'd tap out."
He chuckles, a low sound that rolls through the mattress. "You'd want to leave in the first two hours," he says, "but you'd stay. Just to prove everyone wrong. Maybe stay a full two days."
You side-eye him, chewing a piece of cabbage. He's got sauce on his chin. You want to wipe it. Don't.
He's always been like this. Too near, too eager for your approval. You'll make some offhand comment, and he'll glow under it, tail flicking once like he can't hide how pleased he is. He always finds a way to lean close, to make sure you see him, smell him, feel him around you.
And lately, things stick out more. How when you fall asleep on the couch, there's always a blanket tucked over you that smells faintly of his detergent. How he likes to do your laundry. How your panties always end up missing like clockwork.
You'd joke about it if it didn't sit so heavy in your gut. If you didn't already find them under his pillow. If you didn't look through his entire room and stumble upon that clear plastic toy. You lingered for a second before sliding the drawer closed, but the damage was done.
For the next few days, you couldn't stop picturing him using it. You saw his hips bucking messily, the toy wet and vocal under his weight. He’d moan without a shred of shame, mouth agape, hips snapping into a blur. You could see him groaning as he pulled the toy flush to his pelvis, balls smacking, cock swelling to fill every inch of it. He’d go over the edge too soon—a hot release overflowing the sleeve and dripping over his thighs—yet he’d keep thrusting through the ruin of it. Finally, he’d collapse, flushed and spent, muttering about how he only really needs you. The image made you throb.
The movie winds down quietly. Neither of you move. The room hums low and warm. At some point, your lids grow heavy, and the warmth of him beside you makes it easy to drift.
- Flash Cut 1
You wake to the heavy weight of him. His body is a solid pressure against your back, rocking into you with a subtle, steady rhythm that makes the mattress groan. His breath is shaky against your neck—caught halfway between a growl and a sigh—while his hand rests heavy and possessive on your lower hip.
You could push him off. You could say something sharp and end it right here.
But you don’t. Not yet. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, staying perfectly still as you let him linger there, the rhythm of his hips soft and uncertain against your ass.
His scent wraps around you—thick fur, sweat, and that cedar-sweetness underneath. He’s so big and solid that he makes the bed feel smaller, the very air in the room thicker. You feel the tremor of restraint in the way he moves, a faint vibration of nerves and need as he tries to hold himself back even while grinding against you.
In the dark, he murmurs your name like it’s the only thing holding him together. "Mghn—fuck... I'm sorry, so sorry... I just—uhn," he pants, the whispered words broken as he pulls you tighter against the soft curve of his belly. "Please don't wake up... just let me... god, you're so warm." He’s twitchy. Needy. Filled with the kind of restlessness that makes his entire body ache with tension.
The thick bulge stretching his sweats grinds right against your center. You feel every roll of his weight, the fabric of your shorts rubbing and catching your clit with every pass—and it doesn’t help that you aren't wearing panties. You stay still, breathing slow, pretending to sleep like you don't feel that slick heat already dampening your shorts. Like you don’t feel his hand slide further down, his blunt fingers cupping your inner thigh, just inches from your heat.
In the blissful haze of it, he catches your scent—a change in the air he immediately latches onto. Arousal. He knows you're awake. His movement hitches, his heart hammering against your spine.
"H-hey... are you awake?" he whispers, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope. "I'm sorry, I just really needed you. I couldn't take it anymore—you're just so—"
He stops, waiting for a rejection that hasn't come yet. He let's out a shaky, broken breath against your skin, his eyes glazed and desperate in the shadows as he waits for you to acknowledge him.
"Say something," he pleads, his grip on your hip tightening. "Please. Tell me to stop or... or tell me to keep going."
- Flash Cut 2
You reach back, fingers digging into his jaw to jerk his face toward yours. You squeeze his cheeks, forcing his glazed, half-lidded eyes to meet your gaze in the dark.
"You really are pathetic, you know that, right?" you berate, your voice low and sharp. "Waking me up because you're too weak to handle yourself?"
He leans into your palm, eyes fluttering shut, shamelessly chasing the warmth of your hand even as you insult him.
"Y-Yeah… I know," he rasps, his voice wrecked and thick with shame. "Sorry… I just—god, I really need this. I need you."
He doesn’t stop moving. If anything, the verbal lash makes him push harder. He grinds slow, syrupy-slick against you. You can feel the head of his dick trapped and pulsing behind his sweats, weeping fluid like he’s never been touched in his life. He moans into the shell of your ear—a broken, needy sound—at the sensation of your wet fabric sliding against his.
His grip on your thigh tightens, his blunt claws pressing a desperate, soft indentation into your skin. His fingers tremble, clutching at you as an anchor while his hips start to stutter, moving in earnest now. It’s ragged. Animalistic. Each heavy roll of his hips makes your body jolt.
He drags his dick up against your heat, catching the seam of your shorts against your clit again and again. You gasp, your breath hitching, soaking through your own clothes now until the friction becomes unbearable.
He nuzzles into your throat, his mouth wet and open, kissing the pulse point with sloppy, worshipping desperation.
His hand leaves your thigh, sliding up your stomach, shaking with the effort of not simply taking what he wants. He hooks his fingers into the neckline of your tank top and bra, and yanks them down with a sudden, impatient tug.
Cool air hits your skin for a second before his hand is there. Your breasts spill out, soft and full, and he cups one in a firm, greedy motion—kneading the tender flesh, his palm rough and hot, thumb dragging clumsily over your hardening nipple.
"So soft," he whimpers against your neck, hips snapping forward as he loses the last of his rhythm.
- Flash Cut 3
The air in the room is stifling, thick with the smell of musk and the humid heat radiating off his massive frame. He’s hovering over you now, holding your thighs, his weight making the mattress dip so sharply you feel like you’re sliding into him.
Your hands slide over his chest, fingers grazing the soft bulk of him like you have every right to. His brown skin is impossibly soft beneath the dark, dense black hair that covers him, holding the heat in like a blanket.
His dick is bare, a heavy, pulsing weight that he’s dragging rhythmically across your wet folds. He isn't inside you—you won't let him be—but the friction is perfect. Every time he slides upward, the broad, weeping head of his cock catches against your clit. The slick dripping down is copious. His cum mixes with yours in creamy white strings and splats.
"So messy," you mutter, reaching up to thread your fingers through the thick, coarse hair at the base of his skull. You yank his head down, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are blown wide, the irises nearly swallowed by pupils, darting across your face with a look of pure, unadulterated worship. "Already came twice, and you're still humping me like a stray mutt."
A low, broken growl vibrates in his chest—not a threat, but a plea. His skin is slick with sweat, glistening under the faint light of the TV.
"Can't—can't stop," he gasps, his lower lip caught between his teeth just like when he’s trying to read, only now it’s bleeding slightly from the pressure. "Feels too good... please, just let me stay right here."
"Look at you," you berate him, your voice a low, cutting contrast to his frantic breathing. "Too stupid to know your own limits. You’ll fuck yourself raw before you give up, won't you? Just a big, needy animal looking for a place to hide."
"Yes—fuck, yes," he gasps, hips jerking faster. His cock drags through your slick folds, twitching with every grind, never slipping inside. "Need it—let me put it in—ah."
Your nails dig into the back of his neck, forcing his face against yours.
"I'm not letting a man this pitiful actually fuck me," you whisper against his lips, feeling him shudder. "You don't deserve it."
He curses, his movements becoming ragged and uncoordinated. You can feel the tremor in his thighs, the muscles corded and jumping as he nears a third breaking point without even being inside you.
He lets out a loud, wrecked moan, his head dropping onto your shoulder as his body finally gives in. You feel the hot pulse of him as he shoots ropes of white across your stomach and pussy for the third time tonight, his entire frame racking with a deep tremor. He ruts three more times—slow, heavy, and desperate—before collapsing into you, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs.
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she’s still very young. no essie or sally hansen would be suitable for her. kento first noticed how she stared longingly at your basket of nail polish. then she played with your nails, stroking the polish and holding your much larger hand to her small face, studying how the sparkles refracted and admiring the new design mommy got.
“is this the rub-rub?” your baby would ask. her small finger glided over the bed of your nail. she liked it when you got the nail powder.
you’d laugh, and kento would smile to himself while folding laundry. “yes. i got the rub-rub.”
“i know she’s just looking at my nails,” you told him one evening, “but i like it when she holds my hand.”
after all, your baby’s hand would grow to be your size one day. she’ll only be so small for so long.
it was movie night when kento heard clacking coming from his daughter’s toy room. kento walked inside, excited to announce that he had found a copy of disney hercules, but he found himself launching across the room.
she had stolen your nail polish basket, sorting through the nail polish, managing to crack one open. she tipped the bottle over her mouth, ready to colour the inner lining of her stomach with a sparkly pink goo.
kento snatched her away, plucking the bottle with blurred speed from her small hand. he tried to reason with his crying child that some things cannot be eaten because they’re poisonous. his heart thundered as he tried to speak over her screams. kento’s hands shook, brushing over the downy head of his safe baby, but she shoved him away.
the two of them fell into a hug, exhausted from yelling and the terrible spike of fear kento was naive enough to believe was reserved for missions. now, that fear can happen at home.
from then on, the stinging smell of nail polish always made kento’s stomach lurch.
that evening, when you arrived home, you and kento discussed how you should move forward.
“i can stop doing my nails,” you suggested.
“that’s not necessary. i know you enjoy it.”
you reached for kento’s hand. kento took it, gripping your fingers tight. his hands were clammy. his body trembled with a force you were familiar with.
“there’s nail polish designed for kids,” you tested, studying kento’s face to gauge his reaction. “they’re made with natural ingredients, so if she does try to eat it, she’ll be safe.”
kento’s head rose from leaning heavily on his hand. “where can we get those?”
“online, probably.”
kento tiredly pulled out his phone with his unoccupied hand. “i’ll order some tonight.”
you fell into a silence. the shadows cast across your baby’s toy room felt longer, darker. they fell heavy on kento’s face. was his frown really that deep or was it the trick of the night?
“i’ll hide my nail polish, too. i’m sorry this happened.”
kento squeezed your hand. “this isn’t your fault. if anything,” kento scooched closer, grabbing your other hand, looking you in the eye, “she just wants to be more like you.”
when you had gone to bed, you held each other tightly, your baby wedged between you.
the nail polish arrived in the mail the next evening. you had spoken to your daughter, explaining what happened last night.
“you’re not in trouble,” you reminded her.
“we need you to be safe,” kento added.
your baby, despite being so small, seemed to understand what you were trying to say. not everything is safe to eat. no going through mom and dad’s things unless she asks first.
now, every friday, nanami paints his daughter’s nails, and she paints his.
“i put carrot on your hand,” she’d announce. taking the orange polish (not kento’s favourite), she thickly smears the polish on his thumb nail. he’d have to rub the excess polish off his skin in the shower.
“thank you, baby,” he always said.
the ingredients for the nail polish were extracted from natural dyes, particularly from fruit and vegetables. beets, the skin of apples, carrot.
the brushes that came with the bottles were smaller than yours, making application easy to your baby’s small, small nails.
“ooh, what colours are we wearing this week?” you asked. you shut the front door behind you.
“guess!” your baby demanded.
“hmm.” there was a sharp sting of what smells like carrot in the air. “carrot?”
“papa’s wearing carrot!” she bounced onto her feet, running into your legs. you pretend to fall over, and she tackles you into a hug.
kento rose his hand to show you your daughter’s work: gloopy and uneven orange over his square tipped fingers.
kento smiled at you, a little love sick. you grinned at him from the ground, your baby trying to crawl under your skin and stuffing herself under your coat.
you made a good team: you and kento, with the addition of your baby.
i never thought i’d write papamin. babies are scary to me, but i like the idea of sharing my small joys with them and teaching them about the world. trying gentle parenting and acting the way i wish i was treated as a baby (and now) is a nice thought, too. happy reading :)
The Tuurngaq's death is the most tragic in the show because it represents how industry is successfully poisoning and choking and murdering the Arctic. I'm not even discussing the show I'm talking about the real Arctic. Arctic animals are becoming increasingly endangered year by year. Flowers have appeared in the Arctic where they should not be. Oil companies want to drill and build pipe-lines in Alaska and Siberia that will ruin ecosystems for migrating species. Melting permafrost destroys landscapes and towns. Companies get away with destroying communities and their traditions because a lot of them are poorer and indigenous populations (eg. look up the Yamal-Nenets and how oil affects reindeer hearding). I'm not trying to be a doomer, but I'm saying you should all see this show as a call to protect the Arctic.
while thinking of how i was going to redo my "adversaries" post, i kind of settled on the fact that it would be easier for myself to separate it into his personal enemies versus enemies of his brother.. as that's how most people think about augustin anyways.
The framework I'm using is: how did they interact during the missions, what did they think of him during Year II, and what did they do with him after Thermidor? Those are often three completely different answers for the same person.
Barras
The most I have on in my research so far, and the most instructive one for understanding how Augustin was read by his contemporaries:
In the field during the Midi missions, the relationship was collegial and politically adjacent. Barras and Fréron did a kind of "handover" when Augustin and Ricord arrived — staying in Nice until September 13, orienting them to the situation, then departing for Toulon. They were formally colleagues. They signed collective dispatches together. They attended the same fraternal banquet after Toulon fell.
What Barras actually thought of Augustin during this period is legible in his private mission letters and more openly in his later memoirs — and neither source is flattering, though they're unflattering in different ways.
The mission letters (read directly from the Poupé edition) show Barras privately worried about "having to deal with moderates or men for whom the chapter of considerations never ends" — written at the moment when Augustin and Ricord were about to arrive. He doesn't name them explicitly but the timing is pointed. In the same private letters he describes Augustin as having "la confiance méritée de tous les républicains" — the merited confidence of all republicans — which is Barras publicly acknowledging Augustin's political standing before Thermidor made that acknowledgment inconvenient.
The memoirs, written decades later, give a different picture. Barras claims Augustin was "the last of the representatives to succumb to Napoleon's wiles," achieved through Bonaparte allegedly systematically paying court to Marguerite Ricord because he claims she "exercised great influence over Robespierre the Younger, her husband's colleague." He describes Napoleon picking up her gloves, handing her her fan, holding her bridle and stirrup — performing elaborate social submission to access a woman who could access Augustin. Whether this actually happened is contested (Young is skeptical), but the image Barras constructs is clear: Augustin as someone influenced rather than influencing, someone you reach — most tellingly through Barras's implication — through the women around him rather than directly.
The memoirs also give us the orphan boy episode — Napoleon telling Barras about Augustin's charity to a child whose parents died in revolutionary service — but Barras immediately undercuts it: "It was easy to gather from everything Bonaparte said, anxious as he seemed to speak well of Robespierre the Younger and extol his virtues, that he had a bad cause to defend, and that he was seeking to vindicate the connections he had made." Barras receives Napoleon's praise of Augustin as self-interested rehabilitation, not as genuine testimony.
After Thermidor: Barras signed the written order transferring Augustin to the Committee of General Security "in whatever condition he might be" — overriding the section committee's protest that moving him risked his life. The section had found him too injured to transport. Barras's order came anyway. Young notes, dryly, that "Barras knew too much" for Augustin's posthumous story to have been usefully deployed against him.
On July 25 — four days before Thermidor — Augustin returned Barras's greeting at the Place de la Révolution. Maximilien did not speak. That small moment is probably the truest data point about what the relationship actually was by summer 1794: cordial enough on Augustin's end, politically loaded on everyone else's.
Fréron
In some ways the relationship with Fréron is more revealing than the one with Barras, because Fréron started as a genuine political ally and the deterioration is mostly legible in the record:
In the spring of 1793 — before the missions — Augustin was actively associated with Fréron in the Convention. Young describes them both as part of the group of "extremists" identified as the ferocious aboyeurs who heckled Girondin speeches. Fréron was his political neighbor in that sense. When Augustin and Fréron ended up in the same mission theater, they were colleagues who shared a political orientation, at least on paper.
By the Toulon period, the gap was already visible. Barras and Fréron had, of course, been writing privately before Augustin and Ricord arrived about their fear of "moderates" — and their collective dispatches from Toulon show a different political register from what Augustin was producing in Nice. Fréron was writing that he and Barras were prepared to "raze Toulon" and had "taken extraordinarily terrible measures." Augustin, simultaneously, was releasing prisoners for insufficient evidence in the Alpes-Maritimes and opposing dechristianization. The mission brought them into the same theater and made the difference visible.
After Thermidor: Poupé's introduction to the mission letters describes Fréron — post-Thermidor, in his reaction against the Jacobins — turning directly against those he'd previously aligned with, trying to "avenge Danton's death" and publicly attacking his former colleagues. His personal transformation was, if anything, faster and more complete than Ricord's. The alignment with Augustin in spring 1793 became not just a political liability but an active target. Fréron on 9 Thermidor: "Ah! qu'un tyran est dur à abattre!" — how hard a tyrant is to bring down. He was in the room when Augustin demanded to share the arrest warrant.
Carnot
The clearest enemy, and the one where the hostility is most specifically documented as Augustin's rather than Maximilien's:
The conflict had a specific origin in the Italian campaign. When Augustin laid the Italian strategic plan before the Committee on 1 Thermidor — the plan to push through Liguria into Piedmont and Austria, developed with Napoleon over months — the Committee rejected it. Carnot, the Committee's military expert, was the principal obstacle. Young: "The views of Augustin Robespierre were so vast as to reach nothing less than the destruction of the Emperor [of Austria] with his Italian possessions." Carnot, as Young puts it, "feared the sudden extension of France" and preferred a defensive posture.
Barère, who was in the room, records what happened, though his testimony is — like everybody's on this list, suspect: Augustin was supposed to be presenting the Army of Italy's case, began instead to reproach the Committee about their treatment of Maximilien, lost control entirely, shouted and raved until they thought he'd gone mad, then walked over to Barère specifically and threatened him with the guillotine. Then left: The plan died in that meeting.
From that point, Augustin was convinced Carnot was a traitor. His last coherent statements in the medical deposition — dictated with a brain injury, barely conscious — named Carnot explicitly as "one of the conspirators, who wanted to deliver his country." He was still doing this at two in the morning from the floor of the section committee: The Carnot grievance ran to the end.
The specific phrase "wanted to deliver his country" — livrer son pays — is the accusation that Carnot was preparing to hand France to its enemies. Whether Augustin genuinely believed this or whether it was grief and injury producing political pattern-recognition, we can't know. But the fixation at least was real and documented. His whole attempt in the Guffroy/Leblond staircase meeting — the "foutue bête, why did you talk about Duquesnoy when you should have talked about Carnot" — was about building a case against Carnot specifically.
After Thermidor: Carnot was one of the longer Thermidorian survivors, successfully positioning himself as the Republic's military expert and eventually being rehabilitated under Napoleon. He entered the Panthéon. Augustin's accusation that he "wanted to deliver his country" went nowhere.
Barère
The relationship with Barère is strange because Barère sits in the middle of everything — not a committed Robespierrist, not a committed conspirator, trying to navigate between the two groups right until the last moment.
The 1 Thermidor Committee meeting gives us the clearest image: Augustin walked over to Barère specifically and threatened him with the guillotine. Barère was, per his account, not even fully engaged in the debate — he was working in another part of the room. The choice of Barère as the person Augustin confronted directly in his most uncontrolled moment suggests Augustin read him as the swing figure. The person not yet committed: The one who might still go either way. His threat was probably an attempt to push Barère into commitment. It had the opposite effect: Barère, realizing a crisis was coming, and having been threatened by one side, moved toward the other.
Barère's post-Thermidor account of this meeting is what Young cites. He's not a clean source. But it's one of the cleaner causal chains in the whole Thermidor story, if true: Augustin's uncontrolled rage in that meeting directly contributed to losing one of the few uncommitted figures who might have been kept neutral.
Collot d'Herbois
The most indirect relationship, and the most intriguing.
Augustin's final deposition mentions Panis — an obscure member of the Committee of General Security — as a traitor "because he came to his house one day to tell him to deceive Collot d'Herbois who did not desire the good of the country." Young's reading: "Panis may have been trying to find out his secrets, through abuse of Collot, not long after Augustin's return from Nice."
This is opaque, but it suggests that in the summer of 1794 someone — Panis — was using anti-Collot sentiment to try to extract information from Augustin. Whether Augustin actually distrusted Collot, or was simply suspicious of the person using Collot's name, or was in genuine collaboration with Maximilien's position on Collot (which was cautious, not openly hostile) — the deposition doesn't resolve. The fact that it surfaces in his last conscious moments alongside Carnot suggests it occupied real space in his political thinking in the final weeks.
Collot's own role in Thermidor: he was one of the conspirators, had been targeted by Maximilien's speech on 8 Thermidor. He survived Thermidor, was eventually deported to Guyana, and died there. His relationship with Augustin remains too opaque to characterize precisely.
Billaud-Varenne
Primarily Maximilien's enemy rather than Augustin's — his specific grievances were about the law of 22 Prairial, Danton, and Committee procedure, none of which Augustin was centrally involved in if at all.
What connects him to Augustin is the 1 Thermidor Committee meeting. Buchez and Roux record him in the Convention on 9 Thermidor specifically naming the Italian campaign connection as part of the case against Maximilien: accusing him of having had commissioners sent to the Army of the North to "sow mistrust against the Committee by representing one of its colleagues charged with military operations as a conspirator" — i.e., using Deschamps and others to build the Carnot case: Augustin's summer-long effort to make Carnot a traitor was part of what Billaud-Varenne was citing as evidence of Robespierrist conspiracy.
After 9 Thermidor, Billaud-Varenne addressed the Convention again and again justifying his vote for the arrest. He is one of the voices in the post-Thermidor record. He doesn't focus on Augustin specifically — Augustin was below his level of concern — but the collective accusation of Robespierrist conspiracy covers Augustin by implication.
Fouché
Probably the most distant of all these relationships, despite the apparent political proximity.
Fouché had been on mission in Lyon and Nevers where his dechristianization campaign and use of mass shootings (the mitraillades at Brotteaux) made him exactly the kind of representative Augustin had been opposing in practice throughout Year II. They were doing opposite things in adjacent territories: Maximilien eventually broke publicly with Fouché — accusing him at the Jacobins of using the Revolution for personal crime. Augustin followed his brother's position.
What's interesting is that Fouché survived by reading the political situation faster than almost anyone. By late messidor/early thermidor he had already quietly aligned himself with the conspiracy. He never needed to have a direct conflict with Augustin — his opposition was structural and positional rather than personal. He is one of the figures Young doesn't discuss in relation to Augustin specifically, which is probably accurate: they were never close enough for direct enmity.
I mean unless you want to discuss Charlottes whole.. alleged engagement to Fouché but um. uh. that don't matter rn
Tallien
Similar to Fréron in the sense of a former political neighbor who moved sharply in the opposite direction: Like Fréron, Tallien is associated with Augustin in Young's description of the spring 1793 aboyeur period — they were all part of the same shouting-down-Girondins faction. By 1794 Tallien was on mission in Bordeaux and the Gironde, where his own conduct was extreme enough to attract Robespierrist attention.
On 9 Thermidor, Tallien gave one of the key speeches that turned the Convention session against Maximilien — drawing a dagger and swearing to defend the Republic against tyrants. The theatrical gesture has come down in history as the crystallizing moment when the atmosphere shifted. Augustin, as we know, was in the same room.
Whether Tallien thought about Augustin specifically at any point during this period is not something I have been able to find. The relationship, such as it was, belonged entirely to a political context that no longer existed by 1794.
The Pattern
Two things are consistent: most of these figures had no strong personal feeling about Augustin specifically — he was below their level of concern in different ways — and almost all of them had relationships with him that went through structural political alignment rather than genuine personal connection.
The exception is Barras, who had actual extended contact with him during the Midi missions and whose characterization of him — as someone reached through the women around him, as the "last to succumb" — is the most developed hostile reading we have. And even Barras, in his private letters before Thermidor, acknowledged his political standing as real: The puppet narrative came after. It's a post-Thermidor construction, like most of what was said about Augustin.
The relationship that arguably shaped events most directly wasn't with any of the Thermidorians individually but with Barère specifically — the swing figure he threatened in the Committee room on 1 Thermidor. That threat probably moved Barère from uncertain to committed. It's not much of a legacy. But it's specifically his, not borrowed from his brother.
Sources:
Barras, Paul. Memoirs of Barras, Member of the Directorate. [Read directly — Napoleon/Ricord passage; orphan boy passage and skepticism; Augustin as "last to succumb."]
Poupé, Edmond, ed. Lettres de Barras et de Fréron en Mission dans le Midi. Draguignan: Latil Frères, 1910. [Read directly — "la confiance méritée" private letter; fear of "moderates" passage; Fréron post-Thermidor.]
Buchez and Roux, Histoire parlementaire de la Révolution française. Vol. XXXIII–XXXIV. [Read directly — Augustin's 9 Thermidor declaration; the Committee meeting of 1 Thermidor via Barère and Baudot; Billaud-Varenne's accusations.]
Young, Mary. Augustin: The Younger Robespierre. London: Core Publications, 2011. (Chapters 10, 14, 15, 16, 19 — the Barras/Fréron field relationship; the 1 Thermidor meeting; Collot/Panis deposition reading; Carnot analysis.)
Lenotre, G. Robespierre's Rise and Fall. [Read directly — Barras and Fréron's post-Toulon characterizations.]
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I say with no proof at all. But like, it glitched, while the rest, even Dazzle if I saw(ngl all podcasted it some parts went to the tab to see) and for Night, it glitched, and sometimes when teleporting in tsbs, it can glitch. SO HE MUST OF TELEPORTED SOMEHOW. WE DO NOT KNOW IF HE WAS CAPTURED OR DEAD.
Crazy au I was having in mind and came up with the most random pair. Ready? Jupiter and Night. FOr some dang reason and shall roll with it.
writing tropes, moments, and things i love and already have/plan to add to my fanfic
✔️= added to fanfic already
also note to specify, i love these things in positive & consensual contexts, some of these things could be imagined in negative situations so i want to be clear :)
when a character gets a barrage of questions all at once and has to answer them all quickly before they forget ✔️
bickering :) ✔️
animal adjacent (hybrid/shapeshifter/alien/etc.) character shows animal behaviours/traits when scared/startled/no one's looking ✔️
animal adjacent characters being lovingly/teasingly treated like the animal they are adjacent to ✔️
character A tiptoeing around/avoiding a topic/action to avoid making character B uncomfortable, turns out character B is entirely unbothered ✔️
casual intimacy, especially platonic/queerplatonic intimacy ✔️
sharing clothing, food, tools, etc.✔️
characters bonding over shared interests (so simple but so so lovely) ✔️
character A says asks an obvious question, other character(s) stare blankly until character A gets the point ✔️
honestly i just love when a character gets and takes the opportunity to yell "boys!!" or "girls!!" to chastise other characters acting out of line ✔️
characters asking each other awkward/intimate/personal questions!! there's so much characterization to be had✔️
fantasy sign language!!!!!!
in addition to sign language, other forms of nonverbal communication
characters sparring/training together! again so so much opportunity for characterization here
characters teaching each other a new skill
characters playing board/card/dice games! characterization galore (planning to add a scene of playing knucklebones [dice game] at some point cuz i love knucklebones)