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tennessoui · 3 months ago

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You feed us so well, you spoil us rotten!

I’ve loved every single one of the little creations. My absolute favorite is kenobi’s trial. I’ve been thinking about it the whole evening after reading. If you ever think that it needs a continuation, I am so here for it.

Also, reverse vaderwan had me frothing at the mouth. Which is not surprising since I love throat fic so much.

If you have more, then #29 or 30 for the ask game? 🥺

i am a simple woman, you tell me you like reverse vaderwan i give you more reverse vaderwan (though a slightly different flavor this time)

[from this list of prompts]

[5. 'are you jealous' - 14. 'hey, i'm with you, okay? always.' - 18. 'this is the stupidest plan you've ever had. of course i'm in.' - 24. 'you're the only one i trust to do this' (LATEST) - 27. 'i'm pregnant' - 28. 'marry me?' 32. 'i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified' - 37. 'wanna dance?' - 44. 'if you die, i'm gonna kill you' - 41. 'you did all of this for me?' - 46. 'hey, have you seen...? oh']

29. 'i thought you were dead.'

Darth Tyranus puts his teacup down onto his saucer with a small clink. "Ah," he says, turning his head to examine something in the Force that Solence is unable to feel. His eyes stare unseeingly out at the storm currently battering against the castle's walls. "Yes, I wondered when it would be time."

"Master?" Solence says, placing his own untouched piece of toast down onto the plate in front of him. "What is wrong?"

Tyranus blinks at him, mouth tightening for a moment as he seems to weigh his words and his options carefully. Darth Solence has only been apprenticed under Tyranus for six months, but he understands the importance of such care in choosing one's plan of action. His first master never was able to teach him such things.

His first master, when he was called Obi-Wan--when he was a Jedi padawan, when Anakin Skywalker was his master--

"It seems my former master has sent his new apprentice to kill me," Tyranus tells him. "Retire to your quarters for the morning."

Solence blinks. Automatically, his hand clenches and unclenches in his lap, jerking towards the hilt of his lightsaber. "What? No."

Tyranus sneers as he stands from the table. "You are no match for Vader, boy. He would kill you in a heartbeat."

"You said I'm powerful in the Force," Solence argues, standing as well and rushing after Tyranus' form. "That you were impressed by my control of the Dark side--and you saw me neutralize the whole legion of Imperial troops we encountered on Fielen!"

"No, Solence," Tyranus' voice leaves no room for any further argument. He stops short of the door to the grand hall, turning to look down at Solence with a severe expression. "Though your control of the Force is impressive for someone your age--" Solence is twenty-two, not exactly a youngling-- "and though your control over the Dark side is commendable for someone as Light as you once were--" Obi-Wan, padawan, little star, focus on me, alright? Your katas were sloppy today, let's work on them... "--your power is that of a vibroblade compared to Vader's ion cannon. Now go."

"Tyranus, two Sith are--"

The back of Tyranus' ringed hand connects with a smack across Solence's upturned face. He can feel the instant split of his bottom lip as Tyranus' ring cuts it open.

"No," Tyranus' voice is final, the hit a punctuation mark and a warning all in one. As he turns away from him, Solence lifts his hand to press it to the stinging skin. He has had worse. Endured worse at the hands of this master. The Dark side cannot be taught to an apprentice as delicately as Master Skywalker had once taught Obi-Wan Kenobi the powers of the Light.

And yet...he frowns as he watches Tyranus stroll through the open doors, out of the safety of the fortress, presumably to meet Sidious' apprentice--Vader--at his ship. To catch him off guard? To negotiate? To die?

Perhaps if Tyranus had not told him the truth, the reason behind his sudden dismissal, Solence would have gone to his quarters none the wiser. But he can't leave now, can't stand to watch another one of his masters die, even though the respect he holds for this one is a tiny spark compared to the love Obi-Wan Kenobi once nurtured for Anakin Skywalker.

Darth Solence grabs his dark cloak from the side room and pulls the hood up over his face before following Tyranus out into the storm.

It does not matter if he cannot win a duel against Darth Vader. He must try. He must try, not even because of his respect for Tyranus. Not even because he does not want to lose another master.

He must try because Tyranus said that Vader is Sidious' apprentice, and there is nothing in the galaxy that Obi-Wan Kenobi, Darth Solence, hates more than he hates Darth Sidious, emperor of the galaxy.

It had been this hate that had led him to the Dark side. Hatred and grief at the death of his master in the final days of the war. Sidious had burned the Jedi Order to ash and from its corpse built the empire, and Obi-Wan will die with hatred in his heart for the monster who killed the Jedi. For the monster who killed his master.

He'd been on his first solo mission of the entire war, the day the Order fell. Anakin had been so stubbornly against it, so wary of having his padawan out of his sight during those last few months. Obi-Wan thinks of it now, though it's always painful, and he wonders if perhaps Anakin knew that something terrible was going to happen. His master was always so in tune with the Force.

Perhaps if Obi-Wan hadn't been so insistent, so eager to prove himself as a man, as his master's equal--perhaps if he'd been just a little less obsessed, just a little less in love--

It matters not. In the final days of the war, Obi-Wan had gone behind his master's back and requested a mission from the Council themselves. Stretched thin as they were, they'd agreed in a heartbeat, and Obi-Wan had been sent to Mandalore.

Then the clone troopers on his ship had turned their weapons onto him. Then the Jedi Order had fallen. Then the training bond between his master and him had broken, snapped in two by the weight of the man's demise.

And Obi-Wan, broken and bleeding and grieving and full of poisonous hatred, had found himself on Serrenno, at Darth Tyranus' feet. Tyranus had explained it to him. All of it. How Sidious had manipulated the Order, the galaxy. How he'd consolidated power during the sham of the war effort. How Tyranus had helped him until the moment that Sidious had another younger and more powerful apprentice in his claws. The day Darth Vader had risen, Tyranus had fled. "There can only be two," Tyranus had told Obi-Wan. "One sith master and one apprentice."

It had been so simple, so easy to look back at Tyranus and ask him to take him as his apprentice. A new Sith lineage with only one goal in mind: revenge. Freedom in revenge, power in it.

As the empire rose from the ashes of the Order, so did Solence rise out of the death of Obi-Wan Kenobi--out of the ashes of his hatred.

He'd sworn the day his eyes turned gold that he would dedicate the rest of his life to Sidious' demise. It would not bring his master back to life, but it would feel good to kill the monster who had taken him in the first place. It would feel right.

Tyranus should have known better. He should have known that the moment he'd mentioned Sidious, Solence would throw aside every shred of logic, every bare thread of a plan.

Vader is Sidious' apprentice, not Sidious himself. But Solence thinks it would be so sweet to kill Vader. It would be like practice for the day he faces the emperor.

The rain beats down on him as he follows Tyranus to the shipyard, rocks turning slippery beneath his feet. Tyranus' saber is already lit, a dull red in the darkness of the storm.

As they close the distance from the castle to the yard, Solence can make out another beam of red light, standing still--waiting. Vader.

Tyranus does not attempt to negotiate. The moment he is within striking distance, the old man has his saber above his head, bringing the blade down upon Vader's with all the force he can muster.

And yet, Vader deflects the blow as if batting away a fly. Solence inhales sharply as he ducks beneath the engine of a ship and peers out at the two sith lords. Vader is--Tyranus was right. His presence in the Force is like an ion cannon. It is like a miniature sun, though without any of the warmth.

Tyranus stands no chance.

Obi-Wan wouldn't either, not if he fought with honor and integrity as the Jedi taught him. But Solence is a sith in his own right, and Vader is not expecting two sith. He has the upperhand of surprise. If he can ambush Vader--stab him in the back while he is focused on Tyranus--

Vader's voice is mechanical through the black mask that covers the expanse of his face. "Pathetic," he tells Tyranus as he extends a black glove through the air. The Force bends to his will, and Tyranus is thrown back into a different ship. "Surrender, and your death will be quick and merciful."

Tyranus spits onto the ground before him. It is perhaps the most uncouth thing Solence has ever seen the Count do. "I do not want your mercy."

"Then you shall feel my wrath," Vader intones and he tightens his fist. For a moment, Solence isn't sure what the sith is doing, until Tyranus' hands come up to scrabble uselessly at his throat. He's choking him, Solence realizes, legs tensing beneath him. He's choking him with the Force.

"Goodbye, Grandmaster," Vader says, and Solence isn't quick enough to mask the gasp that the word draws from his lips.

Grandmaster. It--there is something there, something that doesn't make sense because Tyranus was once in the Jedi Order, once had a padawan who had once had a padawan of his own, but how could he be Vader's---

Vader's mask is staring straight at him.

Before he can fight back, the Force is wrapped around his arms and legs, pulling him out from beneath the star jumper. He lands on his hands and knees at Vader's feet, head pushed down so that the edge of Vader's boots is all that he can see.

The Force eases around Tyranus, though the bonds around Solence's wrists hold so strong that Solence is unable to even twitch. "You have an apprentice?" Vader asks, derision dripping from each word, and Solence wishes he were able to speak. Wishes he could spit at the sith the same way Tyranus had.

"Not a very wise one," Tyranus gets out, voice thin and gasping from the strangulation.

"Then I will end this lineage before it has a chance to grow into a problem," Vader decides, and the Force flexes around Solence, screams as it tightens along his throat. Solence makes a noise, small and automatic. Even as he tries to push against Vader's control, he cannot move. He feels like a piece of prey caught between a predator's locked jaw.

This is how he dies. He sees it now, understands. He'd survived everything else, but this--Vader is what kills him. Anakin, I'm sorry, Anakin, Obi-Wan thinks as his eyes darken from the lack of oxygen. I couldn't do it, I couldn't avenge your death, I'm sorry

"Don't," Tyranus yells, and the sound is so distant it feels as if it has come from a past life. "Look at him, look at his face, Vader!"

The Force loosens its grip marginally, and Obi-Wan gasps for what little air he can get. Around him, the Force--Vader--sways. Curious. Vader is curious as he looks at the top of Obi-Wan's hooded head.

But what reprieve Tyranus thinks this will grant them, Obi-Wan doesn't know. After all, Sidious killed the entirety of the Jedi Order. Why would Vader, his apprentice, refrain from killing one former Jedi padawan? His hands are probably darkened with the blood of many.

It is useless to fight the press of the Force as it yanks his head back, forcing his hood to fall and his face to be exposed to the pouring rain. Instead, Obi-Wan musters the power to glare at the downturned, monstrous slopes of Vader's black mask as it stares back at him.

"E chu ta," he spits, because his master, Anakin, used to curse the same way, and it makes Obi-Wan feel warmer in the face of his certain demise to take something of Anakin's and make it his own.

Vader stares down at him, wordless. Even the Force has frozen in the air around them, binds still tight against Obi-Wan's body but loose enough around his throat that he can breathe.

He can't look away, though he wants desperately to look at Tyranus, to see if Tyranus has managed to free himself in the face of Vader's distraction. Perhaps that had been his plan all along.

"What is the meaning of this?" Vader finally says. His voice is flat through the vocodor. Mechanical, but loud. The Force unfreezes and begins to whirl around them. "What is this trickery? Who are you?"

The mask swings around to look at Tyranus, and the Force grows darker with Vader's fury. Obi-Wan glances at his master as well, but Tyranus has done nothing but struggle to his feet. His saber is still several paces away.

If he is to survive and mount a counterattack, Obi-Wan needs to distract Vader again.

He doesn't understand the sith's reaction, but that doesn't mean he can't use it against him.

"I am Darth Solence," he declares, pushing up and against Vader's control of his body. "Tyranus is my master--"

"Is it a clone?" Vader roars, striding through the mud of the shipyard until he has reached Tyranus' side. His physical hand wraps around Tyranus' throat and lifts him into the air, even though Tyranus is not a slight man. "Tell me!"

Obi-Wan pushes himself to his knees, though he is powerless to do more than watch. "Master!" he hears himself say, even though he never calls Tyranus that. Even though the word is reserved for one man alone, one man who will never hear him say it again.

It feels right in the moment, and it must mean something because both Tyranus and Vader's heads snap to him.

"He is dead," Vader growls, and the leather of his glove creaks with the force of his fist clenching around Tyranus' neck. "What--"

"He survived," Tyranus grunts, hand scrabbling at Vader's arm as he tries to take in oxygen. "Sidious lied to you--he came to me, I have been training him, for you, to give to you, to--"

The words cut out as Vader's lightsaber ignites and cuts through Tyranus' throat. Obi-Wan yells out before he can stop himself as he watches the body of his master, his second master, fall to the ground.

And he can do nothing but kneel there, frozen, as Vader turns around to look at him.

The sith is breathing heavily, shoulders rising and falling with the Force of it. In his hand, the still-lit saber trembles. "You are dead," Vader tells him.

Obi-Wan can't disagree. He is dead. Vader will see to that in a moment. He has been dead since the moment Vader's attention caught on him beneath the star jumper. He will be dead shortly. He will--at least he will rejoin Anakin. He has missed him so terribly.

He does not even realize that he's begun to cry until he feels the fingertip of a rough glove touch his cheek, catch one of his tears and lift it away from his face.

"I don't understand," Vader says. The Force is whipping itself into a hurricane around them, but if Vader doesn't understand then Obi-Wan doesn't understand either. "I thought you dead."

Vader must have known him then, Obi-Wan realizes. When he was a Jedi padawan. He must have been an older Knight or Master, the way Tyranus was once Yan Dooku before he Fell. But in the face of Vader's confusion, the pain that lances through his Force signature at those words, Obi-Wan shakes his head, unable to bring himself to agree. He is dead. Obi-Wan died the day his master did.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi is dead," he says. "I am what remains."

Vader takes a step away from him, hand tightening around his saber. Obi-Wan closes his eyes braces for the blow, prays that it will be quick and painless and that when he opens his eyes once more, he will see his master again.

And--and he does, though he feels no lightsaber connect with his body.

Yet when he blinks open his eyes, Anakin Skywalker's face is staring down at him, Darth Vader's mask held in his hands.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, but no words come out in the face of the impossible. It is impossible.

This is impossible.

And yet--

And yet, Anakin Skywalker is there before him, red saber tossed to the side and mask dropped at his feet so that his hands are free to grab at Obi-Wan and pull him closer, pull him into his lap.

"I thought you were dead," Anakin is muttering as his nose runs along the planes of Obi-Wan's face, as his hands grab at his hair and then his cheeks, then further down, along his shoulders and chest. "Sidious said you were killed, I thought the worst--"

"No," Obi-Wan whispers, nonsensical. Nothing makes sense. This does not make sense. Obi-Wan's master is dead. Obi-Wan's master is here, holding him. But he can't be because he is dead. He died when the Temple fell. He died. His master is gone.

His master pulls his face away from his neck so that he can stare at him fully, hand stroking along his cheek, thumb rubbing at Obi-Wan's split lip. "Little star," his master murmurs. "You've come back to me, my pretty little star."

His master's eyes are golden, dark and crazed, and his Force signature is dangerous, possessive and heady. A firestorm, a hurricane. A black hole. Something that seems intent upon swallowing Obi-Wan and never letting him go again.

But he calls him little star.

And Obi-Wan throws his arms around his master and begins to sob.

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 9 months ago

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Historians having takes on frev women that make me go 😐 compilation

Sexually frustrated in her marriage to a pompous civil servant much older than herself, [Madame Roland] may have found Danton’s celebrated masculinity rather uncomfortable. Danton (1978) by Norman Hampson, page 77.

The Robespierres sent their sister to Arras because that was their hometown, the family home, where they had relatives, uncles, aunts and friends, like Buissart who they didn’t cease to remain in correspondence with, even in the middle of the Terror. There, among them, Charlotte would not be alone; she would find advice, rest, the peace necessary to heal her nervousness and animosity. Away from Mme Ricard, who she hated, away from Mme Duplay, who she detested, she would enjoy auspicious calmness. It is Le Bon that the Robespierres will charge with escorting their sister to this neccessary and soothing exile. […] If there is a damning piece in Charlotte Robespierre's case, it is this one (her interrogation, held July 31 1794). She seems to be caught in the act of accusing this Maximilien whom she rehabilitates in her Memoirs. She is therefore indeed a hypocrite, unworthy of the great name she bears, and which she dishonors the very day after the holocaust of 10 Thermidor. Charlotte Robespierre et Guffroy (1910) in Annales Révolutionnaires, volume 3 (1910) page 322, and Charlotte Robespierre et ses mémoires (1909) page 93-94, both by Hector Fleishmann.

Elisabeth, as she was popularly called, was barely past her twelfth birthday, younger even by three years than Barere’s own mother when she was given in marriage. On the following day the guests assembled again in the little church of Saint-Martin at midnight to attend the wedding ceremony of the handsome charmer and the bewildered child. Dressed in white, clasping in her arms a yellow, satin-clad doll that Bertrand had given her — so runs the tradition — she marched timidly to the altar, looking more like a maiden making her first communion than a woman celebrating a binding sacrament. Perhaps the doll, if doll there was, filled her eye, but certainly she could not fail to note how handsome her husband was. Bertrand Barere; a reluctant terrorist (1962) by Leo Gershoy, page 32.

The young nun who bore the name of Hébert did not hide her fate. She did not wish to prolong a life stifled from her childhood in the cloister, branded in the world by the name she bore, fighting between horror and love for the memory of her husband, unhappy everywhere. Histoire des Girondins (1848) by Alphonse de Lamartine, volume 8, page 60.

Lucile in prison showed more calmness than Camille. Before the tribunal, she seemed to possess neither fear nor hope, she denied having taken an active role in the prison conspiracy. What did it matter to her the answer they were trying to extract from her? They said they wanted her guilty? Very well! She would be condemned and join Camille. This was what she said again when she was told that she would suffer the same fate as her husband: ”Oh, what joy, in a few hours I’m going to see Camille again!” Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un couple dans la tourmente (1986) by Jean Paul Bertaud, page 293.

What did it matter to Lucile whether she was accused or defended? She had no longer any pretext for living in this world. She was one of those heroines of conjugal love who are more wife than mother. Besides, Horace lived, and Camille was dead. It was of the absent only that she thought. As for the child, would not Madame Duplessis act a mother's part to him? The grandmother would watch over the orphan. If Lucile had lived, she could have done nothing but weep over the cradle, thinking of Camille. Camille Desmoulins and his wife; passages from the history of the Dantonists founded upon new and hitherto unpublished documents (1876) by Jules Claretie.

Having been widowed at the age of 23 [sic] years, Élisabeth Duplay remarried a few years later to the adjutant general Le Bas, brother of her first husband, and kept the name which was her glory. She lived with dignity, and all those who have known her, still beautiful under her crown of white hair, have testified to the greatness of her sentiments and austerity of her character. She died at an old age, always loyal to the memory of the great dead she had loved and whose memory she, all the way to her final day, didn’t cease to honor and cherish. As for the lady of Thermidor, Thérézia Cabarrus, ex-marquise of Fontenay, citoyenne Tallien, then princess of Chimay, one knows the story of her three marriages, without counting the interludes. She had, as one knows, three husbands living at the same time. Now compare these two existances, these two women, and tell me which one merits more the respect and the sympathy of good men. Histoire de Robespierre et du coup d’état du 9 thermidor (1865) by Louis Ernest Hamel, volume 3, page 402.

Fel free to comment which one was your favorite! 😀

#frev #french revolution #frev compilation #hampson: if women were uncomfortable around danton it’s because they were sexually frustrated!#fleishmann: two men in their 30s can ultimately decide what’s best for their sister who’s also in her 30s #also it’s totally unreasonable for charlotte to disown her brothers after their death when her life was possibly in danger #(and even though they pretty much disowned her while they were still alive)#lamartine claretie bertaud: françoise and lucile wanted to die since there was no longer any point to their lives after the husbands died #hamel: a good way of finding out which side was bad and which side was good is to look over how slutty the women on each side were #wow are you seriously surprised the view of women held by 19th century authors isn’t exactly top modern?#…no comment #claretie should technically get a pass since he thought the journal of sanson was an authentic source #But it was so spectacular i couldn’t contain myself #also a shame i couldn’t remember where i read the interpretation that the reason simond évrard was wary of charlotte corday #was bc she might seduce marat when alone with him

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